H&$S$ 
• 

in !!ii!i'!  ;i!"; 


AN  DOR A 


"THESE   VARIOUS  TOWERS,   GREY  WITH   AGE-' 


PANDORA'S  BOX 


By 
JOHN  AMES  MITCHELL 

AUTHOR  OF 

AMOS  JUDD.  THE  PINES  OF  LORY. 
VILLA  CLAUDIA.  ETC. 


WITH  FOUR  ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY  THE  AUTHOR 


N  EW    YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISH  E  RS 


Copyright,  1911, 
By  JOHN  AMES  MITCHELL 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation  into  foreign 
languages,  including  the  Scandinavian 


September,  1911  _ 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  A  BOATMAN'S  FEE I 

II.  His  LADYSHIP II 

III.  LADY  OCTAVIA'S  DISCOVERY 22 

IV.  AN  IDOL  TOTTERS 38 

V.  MORE  UNEDUCATING 46 

VI.  A  DOG  AND  A  TALE 62 

VII.  A  WOMAN'S  FACE 82 

VIII.  AMERICANA 102 

IX.  A  FATHER  is  REASSURED 113 

X.  Two  TEMPERS 118 

XL  A  CHANGE  OF  MIND 132 

XII.  IN  THE  OLD  GARDEN 145 

XIII.  AMONG  THE  ROSES 155 

XIV.  ANOTHER  VISIT 168 

XV.  FROM  A  TREW  LOVIR 180 

XVI.  A  LADY  THINKS 191 

XVII.  VARIOUS  EMOTIONS 209 

XVIII.  THE  PEARLY  GATES 220 

XIX.  A  PAIR  OF  EYES 231 

XX.  OUT  OF  THE  PAST 242 

483509 


Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXI.     SUPPRESSED   HISTORY 250 

XXII.     IF 265 

XXIII.  ANOTHER  JUNE  MORNING 278 

XXIV.  A  DIPLOMATIC  INCIDENT 288 

XXV.     "SCIENCE  DEMANDS  IT" 296 

XXVI.  THE    CRAZY     GENTLEMAN    GETS 

WORSE 306 

XXVII.     SENTENCE  OF  DEATH 314 

XXVIII.  UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD  TREE...  323 

XXIX.     DARKENING  SKIES 338 

XXX.     FROM  FATHER  TO  SON? 349 

XXXI.     A  TOUCH  OF  FATE. 356 

XXXII.     INSPIRATION  370 

XXXIII.     ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS 384 


PANDORA'S    BOX 


PANDORA'S   BOX 


A  BOATMAN'S  FEE 

AT  the  foot  of  Drumworth  Castle  flows  a  river. 
It  flows  at  leisure,  in  no  haste  to  meet  the 
ocean. 

In  a  clumsy  boat  upon  this  river  a  young  man  was 
gazing  upward,  in  a  rapturous  study  of  the  castle 
towers. 

These  various  towers,  grey  with  age  or  green  with 
ivy,  but  glistening  now  in  the  light  of  spring,  rose 
high  above  the  river's  bank,  all  reflected  upon  the 
waters  beneath,  as  in  a  mirror. 

A  restful  harmony,  this  vast  abode — a  harmony 
in  stone,  of  ancient  battlements,  of  Elizabethan 
gables  and  great  mullioned  windows ;  of  terraces  and 
gardens — a  palace  with  the  strength  of  a  citadel. 
And  the  young  man's  eyes  lingered  here  and  there 
upon  an  oriel  window  of  feathery  grace,  upon  the 
outlines  of  a  warlike  turret  high  against  the  sky,  or 
wandered  leisurely  along  the  balustrade  of  the  great 
terrace  with  its  shrubs  of  fantastic  pattern. 


Pandora's   Box 

Yes,  it  might  well  be  a  castle  in  fairy  land. 

And  the  more  he  looked,  more  beauties  he  discov 
ered.  For  this  was  a  structure  of  many  epochs;  a 
record  of  many  reigns  and  wars:  also  of  several 
styles  of  architecture  harmoniously  reconciled  by  the 
hand  of  time.  It  was,  moreover,  a  famous  monu 
ment  here  in  the  south  of  England,  with  a  stirring 
history.  The  young  man  knew  its  history.  More 
over,  as  an  architect,  he  was  making  a  thorough 
study  of  the  castle  itself — from  early  fortress  to 
modern  mansion.  On  the  seat  beside  him  lay  a 
sketch  book,  between  its  covers  many  sketches  of  this 
imposing  pile. 

The  boat,  a  flat-bottomed  thing,  too  wide  and  far 
too  heavy  for  a  single  pair  of  oars,  would  have 
smiled  at  thoughts  of  speed.  Its  usual  function  was 
that  of  a  ferry,  to  and  fro  across  the  river.  But  the 
ferryman  was  now  at  his  noonday  dinner,  and  the 
present  occupant,  for  the  idle  hour,  had  borrowed  his 
craft.  To  mistake  him  for  the  usual  navigator 
would  be  a  pardonable  error.  The  brim  of  a  soft, 
felt  hat  of  a  common  type  was  lowered  to  shade  his 
eyes,  and  his  shirt  of  faded  blue  flannel,  rolled  up  to 
the  elbow  showed  arms  as  brown  and  muscular  as 
those  of  the  genuine  pilot. 

From  his  day  dreams  this  present  occupant  was 
awakened,  gently,  by  voices  behind  him  on  the  river's 
bank.  Turning,  he  saw  an  open  carriage  coming 
from  the  village,  a  driver  and  footman  on  the  box. 
In  the  carriage  were  two  ladies,  one  an  elderly 


A   Boatman's   Fee  3 

woman  with  white  hair,  recognized  by  the  dreamer 
as  the  Duchess  of  Linsmere.  She  had  been  pointed 
out  to  him  on  the  previous  day,  as  she  was  driving  to 
church.  And  close  beside  the  carriage,  on  a  chestnut 
hunter,  rode  the  Duchess's  son,  Lord  Heps  ford. 
The  other  woman,  whom  the  dreamer  had  never  seen 
before,  was  younger. 

As  the  equipage  stopped,  the  footman  jumped  to 
the  ground,  opened  the  door,  and  the  younger  woman 
descended.  At  the  same  moment  Lord  Heps  ford 
dismounted,  handing  the  reins  of  the  bridle  to  the 
footman.  In  the  still  air,  with  no  sounds  from  the 
neighboring  fields  to  disturb  the  silence,  their  con 
versation  came  distinctly  to  the  dreamer  in  the  boat. 
After  a  few  words  with  the  Duchess — a  handsome 
personage  with  benevolent  aspect — the  younger 
woman,  with  Lord  Heps  ford  beside  her,  came 
through  the  little  gateway,  down  the  grassy  path 
toward  the  river.  Her  white  dress  and  crimson 
parasol  enlivened  the  immediate  landscape — already 
radiant  in  the  spring  sunshine.  Bending  slightly 
forward,  his  face  toward  hers,  the  young  man  was 
speaking  with  some  earnestness. 

"Do  come  tomorrow.  Please  do.  I  will  call  for 
you  at  any  hour  you  say." 

"No.    Not  tomorrow." 

"Thursday,  then?" 

"I  shall  be  too  busy  Thursday." 

"Friday?" 

"No.    Friday  I  must  work." 


Pandora's   Box 

Yes,  it  might  well  be  a  castle  in  fairy  land. 

And  the  more  he  looked,  more  beauties  he  discov 
ered.  For  this  was  a  structure  of  many  epochs ;  a 
record  of  many  reigns  and  wars:  also  of  several 
styles  of  architecture  harmoniously  reconciled  by  the 
hand  of  time.  It  was,  moreover,  a  famous  monu 
ment  here  in  the  south  of  England,  with  a  stirring 
history.  The  young  man  knew  its  history.  More 
over,  as  an  architect,  he  was  making  a  thorough 
study  of  the  castle  itself — from  early  fortress  to 
modern  mansion.  On  the  seat  beside  him  lay  a 
sketch  book,  between  its  covers  many  sketches  of  this 
imposing  pile. 

The  boat,  a  flat-bottomed  thing,  too  wide  and  far 
too  heavy  for  a  single  pair  of  oars,  would  have 
smiled  at  thoughts  of  speed.  Its  usual  function  was 
that  of  a  ferry,  to  and  fro  across  the  river.  But  the 
ferryman  was  now  at  his  noonday  dinner,  and  the 
present  occupant,  for  the  idle  hour,  had  borrowed  his 
craft.  To  mistake  him  for  the  usual  navigator 
would  be  a  pardonable  error.  The  brim  of  a  soft, 
felt  hat  of  a  common  type  was  lowered  to  shade  his 
eyes,  and  his  shirt  of  faded  blue  flannel,  rolled  up  to 
the  elbow  showed  arms  as  brown  and  muscular  as 
those  of  the  genuine  pilot. 

From  his  day  dreams  this  present  occupant  was 
awakened,  gently,  by  voices  behind  him  on  the  river's 
bank.  Turning,  he  saw  an  open  carriage  coming 
from  the  village,  a  driver  and  footman  on  the  box. 
In  the  carriage  were  two  ladies,  one  an  elderly 


A   Boatman's   Fee  3 

woman  with  white  hair,  recognized  by  the  dreamer 
as  the  Duchess  of  Linsmere.  She  had  been  pointed 
out  to  him  on  the  previous  day,  as  she  was  driving  to 
church.  And  close  beside  the  carriage,  on  a  chestnut 
hunter,  rode  the  Duchess's  son,  Lord  Heps  ford. 
The  other  woman,  whom  the  dreamer  had  never  seen 
before,  was  younger. 

As  the  equipage  stopped,  the  footman  jumped  to 
the  ground,  opened  the  door,  and  the  younger  woman 
descended.  At  the  same  moment  Lord  Heps  ford 
dismounted,  handing  the  reins  of  the  bridle  to  the 
footman.  In  the  still  air,  with  no  sounds  from  the 
neighboring  fields  to  disturb  the  silence,  their  con 
versation  came  distinctly  to  the  dreamer  in  the  boat. 
After  a  few  words  with  the  Duchess — a  handsome 
personage  with  benevolent  aspect — the  younger 
woman,  with  Lord  Heps  ford  beside  her,  came 
through  the  little  gateway,  down  the  grassy  path 
toward  the  river.  Her  white  dress  and  crimson 
parasol  enlivened  the  immediate  landscape — already 
radiant  in  the  spring  sunshine.  Bending  slightly 
forward,  his  face  toward  hers,  the  young  man  was 
speaking  with  some  earnestness. 

"Do  come  tomorrow.  Please  do.  I  will  call  for 
you  at  any  hour  you  say." 

"No.    Not  tomorrow." 

"Thursday,  then?" 

"I  shall  be  too  busy  Thursday." 

"Friday?" 

"No.    Friday  I  must  work." 


4  Pandora's    Box 

"Work !  Oh,  I  say !  What  are  you  going  to  work 
at?" 

"At  finding  an  excuse  for  not  going  Saturday." 

"Oh,  come  now!  You  must  call  it  Saturday. 
Really.  Why  be  so  disobliging?  Let's  call  it  Sat 
urday." 

"No,  not  Saturday.  I've  a  lot  of  engagements  for 
Saturday." 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  And  in  the  gentleman's  voice 
came  a  note  of  irritation. 

The  lady  laughed.  "Well,  I  hope  you  are  happier 
for  not  believing  it.  I  want  you  to  be  happy,  you 
know." 

"That's  a  whopper!" 

To  this  no  reply  was  given. 

"Come  Saturday,"  he  persisted.  "Why  be  so  hor 
ribly  exasperating?  I  am  getting  it  up  wholly  on 
your  account.  The  thing  will  fail  without  you.  No 
fun  at  all  unless  you  are  there." 

With  the  hand  that  was  not  holding  the  parasol 
she  made  a  gesture,  quietly  and  with  an  easy  grace, 
but  with  authority — for  the  boatman  to  approach. 
Then  the  dreamer  remembered  what  for  a  moment 
he  had  forgotten — that  he  had  borrowed  the  ferry 
man's  craft.  Quickly  he  picked  up  the  oars  and 
obeyed  the  summons.  As  the  boat  touched  the 
shore  the  gentleman  was  still  protesting.  "Then  I 
will  put  it  off  till  Monday.  But  it's  nearly  a  week 
away." 

"Don't  do  it  on  my  account.  I  am  going  away 
Monday." 


A   Boatman's   Fee  5 

"Going  away!    Where?" 

Without  replying  she  stepped  lightly  into  the  boat 
and  seated  herself  in  the  stern. 

"You  are  not  really  going  away?"  And  in  the 
gentleman's  tone  there  was  both  incredulity  and 
protestation. 

She  nodded. 

"For  how  long?" 

"A  week— or  less." 

"Really?" 

Again  she  nodded  and  with  a  slight  gesture  di 
rected  the  boatman  to  start.  As  the  boatman  pulled 
away  Lord  Heps  ford  again  demanded : 

"Where?    Where  are  you  going ?" 

With  a  slight  gesture  she  pointed  across  the 
river,  toward  the  castle  and  looked  up  at  him  with 
a  smile. 

"Where  the  Hepsfords   cease   from  troubling, 
And  the  Drumworths  are  at  rest." 

After  a  melancholy  attempt  at  a  smile  Lord  Heps- 
ford  shrugged  his  shoulders,  raised  his  hat,  then 
turned  away  to  rejoin  his  mother. 

Out  into  the  stream,  toward  the  castle,  the  boat 
man  pulled.  With  furtive  glances  he  drank  in  this 
welcome  passenger — this  dainty,  radiant,  unexpected 
thing.  By  her  placid  consciousness  of  superiority, 
by  her  superlatively  patrician  air,  he  was  subdued, 
discomfited  and  bewitched.  Indeed,  this  creature 


6  Pandora's   Box 

from  an  upper  world,  in  her  white  ethereal  raiment, 
seemed  suddenly  to  transform  the  shabby  old  scow 
into  a  fairy  barge.  As  to  her  identity  he  had  little 
doubt.  She  was  the  Daughter  of  the  Castle — the 
fairy  princess.  A  stranger  in  this  southwest  of 
England,  having  come  from  London  only  three  days 
before,  he  had  never  seen  the  Lady  Octavia  Henri 
etta  Louise,  only  child  of  the  Earl  of  Drumworth, 
but  he  knew  she  was  that  exalted  person.  He  found 
pleasant  study  in  the  graceful  head  and  slender,  girl 
ish  neck,  the  hands  carelessly  crossed  upon  the  folded 
sunshade  in  her  lap,  the  eyes  half  closed  in  thought 
— and  her  thoughts,  apparently  were  up  the  river,  far 
away.  While  an  object  of  absorbing  interest  she 
was  exasperatingly  unconscious  of  the  existence  of 
the  present  boatman.  But  the  present  boatman  soon 
learned  that  surreptitious  glances  were  a  waste  of 
caution.  After  one  careless  look  in  his  direction, 
when  entering  the  boat,  she  became,  so  far  as  he 
could  judge,  unaware  of  his  presence.  Had  he 
been  a  fly  upon  the  seat  she  could  not  have  given 
him  less  attention.  He  excited  no  curiosity.  Now 
and  then  the  far  away  eyes — gray  they  seemed  to 
be,  with  dark  lashes — would  look  up,  but  never 
at  him.  This  neglect,  while  humiliating,  did  not 
lessen  his  interest.  On  a  closer  study  he  detected 
— or  thought  he  did — a  look  of  weariness  in  the 
face — signs  of  lassitude,  or  habitual  ennui. 

As  he  pulled  at  his  oars — not  with  too  much 
haste,  for  he  had  no  desire  to  abbreviate  this  voy- 


A   Boatman's  Fee  7 

age — his  imagination  kindled.  If  only,  oh!  if  only 
this  soulless  craft  could,  like  the  enchanted  rug  in 
the  Arabian  Nights,  float  heavenward  and  remain 
forever  suspended  in  the  white  clouds  above!  Or, 
why  should  not  this  river,  now  unreasonably  narrow, 
widen  as  they  sailed  until  all  the  world  was  water — 
except  a  nice  little  island,  say  a  year  or  two  ahead  ? 
But  since  no  hope  was  promised  by  changes  in 
geography,  why  not  endow  the  passenger  with  a 
change  of  spirit — with  a  livelier  interest  for  the 
person  in  her  vicinity?  How  gratifying  if  this  ex 
alted,  lovely  creature  should  lean  toward  him  with 
transfigured  face,  and  murmur,  "I  love  you,  Boat 
man!" 

But,  alas !  how  far  the  dream  from  reality ! 

So  complete  was  her  indifference  to  the  ferryman 
that  it  seemed,  at  first,  intentional, — and  elaborate 
ly  perfected.  Even  this  consolation,  however,  was 
denied  him;  for  it  soon  became  clear  that  her 
thoughts  were  far  away,  and  far  above  him.  He 
was,  apparently,  too  commonplace  or  unimportant 
to  merit  even  that  effort.  Perhaps  she  was  simply 
bored  by  the  voyage  across  the  river.  And  he 
wondered  as  to  the  cause  of  the  very  serious  ex 
pression  that  had  come  into  her  face.  Were  these 
solemn  thoughts  for  the  man  she  had  left  behind? 
Of  his  devotion  there  seemed — to  the  boatman  at 
least — no  doubt  whatever.  Perhaps  she  liked  him 
fairly  well — but  not  enough.  These  speculations 
were  unavoidable,  but  speculations  of  this  kind,  the 


8  Pandora's   Box 

boatman  knew,  might  be  erroneous.  Sometimes, 
however,  idle  guesses  by  strangers  are  surprisingly 
accurate. 

Absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  her  many  points 
of  interest, — her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  youthful  figure 
and  patrician  manner,  and  the  gentle  melancholy 
he  would  have  loved  to  dispel — he  failed  to  make 
allowance  for  the  river's  current.  She  reminded 
him  of  his  error  by  a  slight  movement  of  a  hand, 
gracious  but  commanding.  Even  this  gesture  to 
ward  the  proper  landing  was  made  without  seeing 
him,  the  far  away  eyes  merely  resting,  for  a  mo 
ment,  in  the  direction  the  boat  should  go.  In  his 
humble  role  of  motive  power — of  animal  force — he 
hastened  to  rectify  the  error  and  headed  the  boat 
as  the  hand  directed. 

But  this  man's  pride  was  destined  to  be  further 
outraged. 

When  he  had  brought  his  boat  alongside  the  land 
ing  the  Daughter  of  the  Castle  stood  up  and  held 
forth  a  hand  as  if — it  seemed  to  the  ferryman — 
she  wished  assistance  in  stepping  ashore.  Happy  in 
deed  to  render  this  service  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and 
stepped  forward  with  outstretched  arm.  He  real 
ized  with  a  thrill  of  pleasure  that  he  was  to  re 
ceive  her  hand  in  his — to  come  in  contact  with  her, 
to  hear  a  word  of  thanks,  perhaps,  for  performing 
a  trivial  deed — to  bring  him  at  last  within  the  sacred 
circle  of  her  vision. 

But,  in  another  instant,  briefer  than  sudden  death 


A   Boatman's   Fee  9 

• — and  sharper — he  and  his  ambition  were  flung  to  a 
fathomless  obscurity.  Into  his  extended  palm  a 
coin  was  dropped.  Not  with  a  glance  of  recognition 
but  with  calm  eyes  far  away — eyes  that  barely  re 
garded  the  piece  of  money  as  it  fell.  Moreover,  her 
own  fingers  in  parting  with  the  metal  retreated  in 
a  dainty  upward  motion,  calmly  but  sufficiently 
rapid  to  avoid  contact  with  his  own. 

As  he  lowered  his  eyes  to  the  shining  thing— 
which  seemed  to  return  the  glance  like  a  mocking, 
triumphant,  silver  eye — the  color  flew  to  his  face. 
His  lips  moved.  As  he  turned  swiftly  up  with  a  look, 
which,  had  the  lady  seen  it,  might  have  held  her  at 
tention  for  an  instant,  she  was  stepping  lightly  to 
the  shore,  already  forgetting  him! 

For  a  moment  the  young  man,  with  no  change  of 
position,  held  forth  his  hand  with  its  shilling.  Then 
his  cheeks  grew  hotter  still  as  he  remembered  the 
regular  price  was  sixpence  and  she  had  given  him  an 
extra  sixpence  for  himself! 

In  the  profundity  of  his  humiliation  he  closed  his 
eyes.  By  this  acceptance  of  a  few  pennies  he  was 
made  to  realize  the  abysmal  social  gulf — in  the 
giver's  mind — between  her  and  himself.  For  a 
brief  period  he  looked  upon  the  metal  disk  as  he 
might  have  studied  a  venomous  reptile,  or  any  other 
thing  whose  close  acquaintance  was  unthinkable. 
Then,  his  look  of  hostility  gave  place  to  the  faintest 
of  smiles,  and  he  put  the  shilling  in  his  pocket.  Not 
in  a  pocket  with  other  change,  but  in  a  pocket  by 


10  Pandora's   Box 

itself,  that  it  might  not  be  lost  among  ordinary 
coins. 

Pulling  the  brim  of  his  hat  still  further  over  his 
eyes  he  again  sat  down,  took  up  the  oars  and  rowed 
out  upon  the  river. 


II 

HIS  LADYSHIP 

THIS  adventure  of  the  shilling  disturbed  the 
boatman.  For  several  hours  it  supplied  him 
with  a  variety  of  emotions;  swift  changes 
from  a  spurious  joy  to  a  hot  and  helpless  exaspera 
tion.  His  efforts  to  despise  the  lady  for  her  lack 
of  perception  were  constant  failures.  He  was  aware 
that  her  personal  appearance  added  to  her  offense. 
Had  she  been  old  and  ugly  he  could  have  overlooked 
her  amazing  insensibility  to  his  own  presence.  But 
her  youth,  her  beauty,  her  personal  charm,  her 
voice,  her  exalted  manner,  he  could  neither  forgive 
nor  forget. 

This  victim  of  the  unintentional  snub  was  a  tall 
young  man  of  angular  figure.  While  never  accused 
of  beauty  he  bore  a  face  in  which  intelligence,  hon 
esty,  and  a  sense  of  humor  were  clearly  written. 
This  afternoon  he  smiled  at  intervals.  It  was  mere 
ly  done,  however,  to  show  himself  that,  after  all,  he 
was  only  amused  by  the  adventure.  His  customary 
smile  bore  the  same  relation  to  these  mechanical 
efforts  as  honey  to  crab  apples.  Humiliation  and 
resentment  were  his  present  companions.  And  he 
ii 


12  Pandora's    Box 

found  little  consolation  in  the  thought  that  he  might 
never  see  the  Lady  Octavia  again,  and  if  he  did  see 
her  she  would  not  see  him.  So,  while  outwardly 
active  with  his  camera  and  his  sketches,  inwardly  he 
chewed  the  cud  of  defeat,  of  helplessness,  and — 
worst  of  all — oblivion. 

Earlier  than  usual  he  walked  back  to  the  vil 
lage  of  Drumworth,  about  a  mile  from  the  castle. 
He  remembered,  in  the  midst  of  his  mortifications, 
that  Mrs.  Pindar,  at  whose  cottage  he  was  lodg 
ing,  had  once  been  a  maid  to  this  Lady  Octavia's 
mother ;  and  although  poor  Mrs.  Pindar's  mind  was 
now  a  blank,  Sally  Pindar,  the  daughter,  might  be 
tempted  to  talk  about  the  exasperating  passenger 
who  had  ruined  his  afternoon.  Mrs.  Pindar,  as  he 
approached,  stood  leaning  upon  the  wooden  gate 
of  the  little  garden  in  front  of  her  cottage.  On  the 
doorstep  her  ten-year-old  son  was  mending  a 
cricket  bat.  Mrs.  Pindar,  pleasantly  stout,  had  a 
wide,  cheerful  face  that  gave  no  indication  whatever 
of  the  mental  confusion  behind  it.  Unlike  many 
persons  thus  afflicted  she  was  never  depressed.  She 
suffered,  apparently,  small  loss  of  memory.  But 
her  mind,  like  a  humming  bird  in  a  sunny  garden, 
was  everywhere  at  once. 

When  this  lodger  now  commented  on  the  weather, 
Mrs.  Pindar  replied,  with  her  friendly  smile,  that  she 
never  wore  such  things  in  summer.  And  when  he 
asked  if  her  daughter  was  in  the  house  she  laid  a 
hand  upon  his  arm  and  advised  him,  in  a  motherly 


His  Ladyship 


way,  to  avoid  dangerous  encounters,  saying  they 
were  not  only  bad  for  the  nerves  but  had  prevented 
many  another  lady  of  quality  from  coming  to  life 
again. 

Then  she  opened  the  little  gate  for  him,  and 
after  looking  intently  into  his  eyes  an  instant,  backed 
away,  curtsied  and  said,  "Your  ladyship  is  always 
welcome." 

He  raised  his  hat.     "Thank  you,  Mrs.  Pindar." 

Again  Mrs.  Pindar  curtsied.  "Your  ladyship 
knows  best.  But  I  have  been  so  sorry  all  these 
years;  so  very  sorry!  Yes,  indeed!  But  then,  it 
is  not  for  me  to  blame  your  ladyship." 

The  lodger  bowed,  and  with  a  sober  face.  These 
inconsequent  speeches  moved  him  to  pity,  never  to 
mirth.  He  saw  Sally  Pindar  in  the  living  room 
near  the  open  door  at  the  back  of  the  cottage.  She 
was  sewing.  In  the  doorway  itself,  looking  out 
into  the  garden  beyond,  sat  a  large,  buff  cat,  Toby 
by  name.  From  the  western  sun  a  flood  of  light  il 
luminated  that  portion  of  a  room  otherwise  in 
shadow,  for  the  low  casement  windows  with  their 
little  diamond  shaped  panes  of  antique  glass  merely 
enlivened  the  general  obscurity.  In  the  center  of 
this  bar  of  light  sat  Sally  Pindar,  absorbed  in  her 
work.  The  flood  of  light  also  illuminated  Toby, 
touching  him  up  with  an  edge  of  gold. 

Sally  Pindar  herself  was  favored  neither  by  art 
nor  nature.  She  seemed  one  of  those  creatures 
whom  Providence  had  chosen  to  forget.  Thin,  short, 


*4  Pandora's  Box 

angular,  round  shouldered,  pale,  with  colorless  eyes 
and  hair,  she  possessed  a  kind  heart,  a  tender  con 
science  and  a  timid  soul.  Her  weak  voice  and  hesi 
tating  manner  invited  deprecation  and  neglect.  Cer 
tain  laws  of  heredity  had  completed  the  work  of 
the  careless  Providence  by  endowing  her  with  a 
fragile  constitution  and  poor  health.  But  Sally 
herself  had  triumphed  over  these  laws  of  heredity 
and  the  forgetful  Providence.  For,  although  unat 
tractive,  undesired  by  men,  weak  and  a  constant 
sufferer,  she  was  always  cheerful. 

The  lodger  drew  up  a  chair  and  seated  himself 
before  the  maiden. 

"What  are  you  doing?  Sewing  the  buttons  on 
my  waistcoat!" 

With  an  embarrassed  smile  she  looked  up,  then 
down  again.  "The  tailor  you  mentioned  has  gone 
to  Taunton  for  a  day  or  two  and — and  it  is  so  very 
easy  to  tighten  these  buttons  that  I  thought  you— 
perhaps  might  not  object  if  I  did  it  myself." 

"Object!  Well,  I  wish  there  was  some  way  in 
which  I  could  show  my  gratitude.  Can't  you  fall 
into  the  river  and  let  me  pull  you  out,  or  give 
me  some  sort  of  a  chance  to  do  something  in 
return?" 

But  Sally  Pindar  merely  smiled,  shook  her  head 
and  kept  on  with  the  buttons. 

"That  makes  four  debts  of  gratitude."  Holding 
up  a  hand  he  began  to  count  on  his  fingers.  "Talk 
ing  with  that  insufferable  Mrs.  Trent  for  an  hour 


His   Ladyship  I5 

yesterday  just  to  save  me  from  being  bored  to 
death ;  finding  my  collar  stud  under  the  washstand ; 
not  cursing  me  when  I  spilled  ink  on  your  best 
carpet,  and  now — those  buttons.'' 

Again  the  girl  protested. 

But  he  interrupted.  "Let  angels  kiss  the  hem  of 
your  garment.  I  am  unworthy.  Have  you  discov 
ered  yet  why  your  mother  always  calls  me  a  lady 
ship?" 

Sally  shook  her  head.  "No.  Poor  mother!  It 
would  be  useless  to  ask  her." 

"Do  you  really  think  she  takes  me  for  some  fe 
male  of  quality?" 

"It  is  possible." 

"Perhaps  I  am  a  fairy  princess  and  she  is  the 
first  to  discover  it." 

This  idea  seemed  to  interest  Toby,  for  he  turned 
and  approached  the  speaker.  Toby  was  an  excep 
tional  cat,  well  nourished  and  dignified,  whose  color, 
a  huffish  brown  along  the  back,  grew  fainter  in  de 
scending  until,  at  the  stomach,  it  became  a  delicate 
ecru.  This  ecru  stomach  was  inviting.  And  its 
owner  knew  it.  To  lie  upon  a  piece  of  furniture, 
extend  his  limbs  and  display  to  its  utmost  dimen 
sion  this  witchery  of  golden  fur  was  a  tempting 
invitation  to  the  average  beholder.  To  pass  your 
hand  along  this  stomach  was  a  sensuous  joy.  To 
its  owner,  as  a  means  of  gaining  attention  and  ca 
resses,  it  was  a  talisman.  As  a  means  of  procuring 
food,  however,  it  proved  a  mirth  inspiring  failure; 


16  Pandora's   Box 

for  a  fuller,  more  exuberant  and  a  more  prosperous 
pouch  one  rarely  encountered. 

After  rubbing  against  the  lodger's  shins  he  rolled 
over  on  his  back.  The  lodger  accepted  the  invita 
tion  and  stroked  the  ecru  stomach.  While  so  en 
gaged  he  remembered  that  he  desired  certain  in 
formation  from  Sally  Pindar.  "As  to  ladies  of 
quality,  do  you  believe,  if  this  Lady  Octavia,  for 
instance,  and  I  were  standing  side  by  side,  a  sharp 
observer  would  find  difficulty  in  knowing  which 
was  which?" 

Sally  Pindar  smiled,  but  gave  no  answer.  The 
question  was  too  silly. 

"I  should  hate  to  change  places  with  her,  all 
the  same.  She  is  probably  a  fearful  snob,  self  satis 
fied,  indifferent  to  others,  too  cold  and  narrow  to  be 
of  much  pleasure  either  to  herself  or  to  anybody 
else." 

In  amazement  the  girl  looked  up.  She  was  clearly 
shocked.  "Why,  Mr.  Lovejoy!  How  can  you  say 
such  a  thing  ?  Lady  Octavia  is  a  charming  woman, 
kind,  gentle  and  most  unselfish.  Everybody  will 
tell  you  so." 

"But  you  will  admit  she  is  everlastingly  proud." 

"Oh,  no,  sir!  And  even  if  she  is  you  couldn't 
blame  her.  One  should  remember  her  bringing  up 
—and  the  influence  of  Lady  Georgiana." 

"Poor  thing!"  sighed  the  lodger.  "So  it  would 
be  no  fault  of  her  own  if  she  were  obnoxious.  But 
why  waste  our  pity?  Snobs  are  always  happy." 


His    Ladyship  I7 

Had  Sally  Pindar  known  this  man  better  she 
would  have  taken  his  remarks  less  seriously. 

"A  snob!"  she  exclaimed.  "Oh,  no!  She  is  not 
a  snob!  In  fact  if  her  mother  had  lived  and  she 
not  been  so  much  with  Lady  Georgiana  she  would  be 
quite  different,  I  think.  Although  the  Drumworths 
have  always  had  good  opinions  of  themselves  they 
are  no  worse  than  you  or  I  would  be  in  their  posi 
tion." 

"That's  a  humiliating  thought.  But  who  is  Lady 
Georgiana  ?" 

Then,  from  Sally  Pindar's  lips,  came  the  infor 
mation  he  desired.  The  Lady  Octavia,  when  four 
years  old,  had  lost  her  mother,  a  gentle,  highly  cul 
tivated  and  most  lovable  woman.  Upon  this  moth 
er's  death  a  sister  of  the  Earl  of  Drumworth,  the 
Lady  Georgiana,  a  most  exclusive  person,  came  to 
the  castle  and  took  the  mother's  place.  And  Oc 
tavia,  being  an  only  child,  received  a  most  exclusive 
education.  Persistent  effort  bore  its  fruit.  The 
child  realized  at  an  early  age  that  a  benevolent 
Creator,  while  peopling  the  earth,  had  established 
two  classes  of  humans,  distinct  and  far  asunder; 
people  of  birth  and  others.  Of  these  others  not 
much  was  expected.  But  of  those  well  born,  of 
whom  too  much  could  never  be  said,  the  child  Oc 
tavia  was  amply  informed.  And  then,  of  course,  in 
her  thirsting,  childish  mind  became  imbedded  the 
fixed  conviction — and  from  reliable  sources — that  be 
tween  these  people  of  gentle  birth  and  the  others  ex- 


i8  Pandora's    Box 

isted  a  bottomless  gulf,  unbridgable  and  everlasting. 

"And  although  Lady  Octavia,"  said  Sally  Pin 
dar,  "is  now  a  person  with  her  own  opinions,  she  has 
had  so  much  attention,  being  the  only  child  of  a 
great  house,  that  her  pride  is  quite  natural." 

The  lodger  heaved  a  sigh.  Crossing  one  of  his 
long  legs  over  the  other  he  sank  lower  in  his 
chair.  "She  is  probably  her  own  worst  enemy.  But 
why  is  she  not  married,  with  all  her  beauty  and  shin 
ing  ancestry?  Are  the  gods  beneath  her?" 

Sally  Pindar  stopped  sewing,  and  resting  her 
hands  in  her  lap,  looked  out  through  the  open 
door  toward  the  western  sky. 

"I  really  think,  and  so  do  many  others,  that 
Lady  Georgiana's  ideas  are  so — so  very — " 

"Fantastic." 

"No,  sir,  not  that,  but  so  very  lofty  and  kind  of 
superior  that  Lady  Octavia  may  never  marry  at  all. 
And  it  is  too  bad,  for  she  is  a  most  interesting 
woman;  generous,  unselfish — and  a  lovable  nature." 

"And  more  bumptious  than  a  million  peacocks." 

"Oh,  never!  never!  You  don't  know  her  at  all! 
Her  pride  is  not  a  bad  kind." 

"She  has  a  domineering  little  nose." 

Sally  smiled,  without  looking  up  from  her  work. 

"And  insolent  eyes." 

This  time  she  looked  up.  "Insolent  eyes !  What 
an  idea!" 

"And  a  hard,  cruel  mouth." 

"Why,    Mr.    Lovejoy!      What    do    you    mean? 


His   Ladyship  *9 

Why,  hers  is  a  beautiful,  a  lovely  mouth, — refined, 
sensitive,  exceptionally  pretty." 

"Well,  perhaps — but  you  must  admit  that  her 
manners  are  snubby." 

"Indeed,  I  do  not!" 

"Well,  anyway,  she  has  a  harsh  voice." 

"A  harsh  voice!  Surely,  you  have  never  heard 
her  speak!  Her  voice  is  particularly  soft  and  gen 
tle.  It  is  really  musical." 

"Now,  Miss  Pindar,  either  your  affection  for  the 
lady  misleads  you  or  those  acres  of  family  portraits 
at  Drumworth  Castle  are  persistent  liars." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  went  through  the  castle  yesterday  with  the 
usual  weekly  visitors,  and  if  there  is  one  dominat 
ing  trait  in  those  generations  of  portraits  it  is  pride 
— an  unreasoning,  cast  iron,  inextinguishable  pride; 
the  pride  that  fattens  on  itself;  the  splendid,  thor 
oughly  enjoyable,  witless  pride  of  ancestry  and 
money." 

Sally  Pindar's  eyebrows  had  risen  in  surprise. 
"One  would  think  you  were  quite  stirred  up  about 
it!" 

The  lodger  recrossed  his  legs.  "I  am.  I  should 
like  to  drop  in  on  the  Drumworth  family  and  just 
tell  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Earl  and  their  granddaughter, 
niece,  or  whatever  she  may  be,  how  stupid  a  thing 
pride  is — and  how  ridiculous  are  its  victims." 

"Why  don't  you?" 

"It  would  be  a  waste  of  time.     That  is,  of  my 


20  Pandora's   Box 

time.  Their  time  is  probably  of  little  value.  Be 
sides,  the  humbling  of  the  haughty  is  an  arduous 
task." 

Sally  Pindar  was  never  quite  sure  as  to  how  seri 
ously  this  man's  speeches  were  to  be  taken.  Al 
though  his  face  in  repose  was  more  grave  than 
gay,  there  appeared,  at  times,  contradictory  lines 
about  his  eyes  and  mouth  that  told  of  inward  mirth. 
As  she  glanced  at  him  now  she  found  him  studying 
her  own  face,  from  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  as  if 
amused  by  her  loyalty.  But  she  made  no  reply,  as 
her  mother,  at  this  moment,  came  slowly  into  the 
room.  The  lodger  rose  from  his  chair.  He  always 
treated  this  woman  with  as  much  deference  as  if 
she  were  his  own  mother.  For  a  moment  she  stood 
behind  her  daughter,  then,  drawn  toward  the  young 
man  by  something  she  saw — or  imagined  she  saw 
— in  his  face,  approached  him  and  went  through 
with  what  had  now  become  a  habit.  After  gazing 
intently  into  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  she  backed 
away  and  curtsied.  He,  as  usual,  acknowledged 
the  curtsy  by  a  bow.  Then  Mrs.  Pindar  said: 
"Yes,  indeed,  your  ladyship  is  very  brave  to  face 
such  a  temper.  A  strange  world,  isn't  it?  Full 
of  wonderful  things.  Yes,  indeed !" 

Again  she  curtsied,  moved  toward  the  doorway, 
there  hesitated  a  moment,  then  passed  out  into  the 
garden. 

Some  hours  later,  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morn 
ing,  this  unforgetting  boatman  arose  from  his  bed 


His   Ladyship  21 

and  stood  for  a  time  at  his  chamber  window.  In 
the  western  sky  a  round,  resplendent  moon  was 
partly  hidden  by  the  towers  of  Drumworth  Castle. 
These  shadowy  towers  loomed  high  above  the  earth, 
in  grim,  serene  indifference  to  things  below.  Even 
at  night  they  seemed  engaged  in  their  usual  occupa 
tion  of  despising  the  surrounding  country.  And 
somewhere  within  those  walls  slumbered  the  most 
exasperating  woman  in  the  world. 

His  own  pride  was  further  harrowed  by  the  cor 
roding  consciousness  that  a  gulf  existed  in  this  lady's 
mind  between  herself  and  him — a  vast,  unmeasured 
gulf,  as  between  beings  on  separate  planets. 

After  gazing  for  a  time  on  this  discouraging 
scene  he  went  to  his  coat  and  took  from  a  pocket 
the  portrait  of  a  woman — a  photograph  not  much 
larger  than  a  visiting  card.  In  the  moonlight,  at 
the  window,  he  studied  the  face.  Then,  on  a  sudden 
impulse,  he  tore  the  picture  across  the  middle,  tossed 
the  two  pieces  into  a  waste  basket  and  went  back 
to  bed. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  arose  from  his  bed,  lit  a 
candle,  gathered  up  the  two  pieces  of  the  portrait 
and,  by  pasting  paper  on  the  back,  carefully  joined 
them  together. 


Ill 

LADY  OCTAVIA'S  DISCOVERY 

MANY  times  during  the  next  twenty-four 
hours  the  ferryman  recalled  the  sixpenny 
"tip"  and  the  kind  lady  who  bestowed  it. 
The  kind  lady,  on  the  contrary,  did  not  once 
recall  either  the  gift  or  the  recipient. 

The  following  morning,  it  being  customary  to 
work  an  hour  or  so  in  her  own  little  garden,  train 
ing  and  trimming  plants  and  gathering  flowers,  she 
put  on,  as  usual,  an  old  straw  hat,  a  blue  gingham 
apron  and  her  working  gloves.  But  the  gingham 
apron,  the  soiled  gloves  and  the  trowel  were  not 
deceptive.  They  added  no  humility  to  the  lady's 
bearing;  no  meekness  to  her  spirit.  As  a  child  she 
had  shown  democratic  tastes  that  alarmed  her  aunt ; 
tastes  pardonable  perhaps  in  a  person  of  ordinary 
clay  but  not  befitting  a  Drumworth.  While  Auntie 
George  realized  that  a  proper  pride  of  birth  might 
not  be  expected  in  a  child  of  six,  she  fully  realized 
that  a  girl  of  ten  should  be  ashamed  of  certain  com 
panions.  And  when  Lady  Octavia,  at  the  age  of 
ten,  made  no  concealment  of  a  friendship  with  the 
daughter  of  the  second  gardener,  there  was  cause 

22 


Lady  Octavia's  Discovery       23 

for  action.  And  then  began,  on  the  part  of  Auntie 
George,  a  vigilant,  systematic  and  unceasing  in 
struction  in  family  pride.  In  the  unfolding,  sensi 
tive  nature  of  her  niece  she  imbedded,  with  all  the 
force  of  experience  and  religious  conviction,  a 
sterner  realization  of  the  abysmal  gulf  between  blue 
and  common  blood;  of  the  degradation,  social  and 
moral,  that  inevitably  resulted  from  violations  of 
this  heaven-born  truth. 

The  task  was  easy.  Counteracting  influences  were 
not  at  hand.  The  vine  grew  as  it  was  trained. 
Born  and  reared  in  a  castle,  every  stone  of  which 
bore  record  of  the  glories  of  her  race,  surrounded 
by  portraits  of  noble  progenitors,  receiving  ever, 
from  the  outer  world,  the  deference  due  to  exalted 
position,  Lady  Octavia,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  enjoyed 
a  consciousness  of  superiority  that  needed  no  sup 
port. 

And  this  morning,  while  at  work  among  her  flow 
ers,  the  very  walls  of  the  castle  that  towered  above 
were  a  silent  but  impressive  tribute  to  the  honor 
of  her  name.  The  splendid  terrace,  the  ancient  oaks 
beneath,  the  broad  acres  that  stretched  away  toward 
the  village,  the  fields  and  forests,  all  were  Drum- 
worth — and  always  had  been,  since  English  history 
began. 

Straightening  up  after  a  time,  she  closed  her 
eyes  and  inhaled,  with  a  deep  breath,  the  flower 
scented  air  of  her  garden.  This  garden,  at  the 
east  end  of  the  long  terrace,  was  separated  from 


24  Pandora's    Box 

it  and  hidden  by  an  ancient  row  of  yew  trees,  cut 
down  to  a  hedge. 

After  standing  a  moment  and  looking  idly  around, 
her  eyes  rested  upon  a  narrow  door  near  the  corner 
of  the  eastern  wall.  There  was  nothing  remarkable 
or  unusually  inviting  about  this  narrow  archway  at 
this  present  moment,  but,  obeying  an  impulse,  pos 
sibly  the  idle  curiosity  of  an  idle  moment,  she 
moved  in  that  direction.  To  be  sure  the  door  had 
always  been  there.  But  it  had  always  been  closed. 
Now  it  was  ajar.  Being  a  solid  little  door,  very 
ancient,  with  massive  iron  hinges  and  a  rusty  lock, 
the  temptation  to  open  it  had  been  easily  resisted. 
Besides,  she  knew  what  lay  behind  it.  She  won 
dered,  also  in  an  idle  way,  why  it  was  open.  As 
many  months  had  passed  since  she  had  visited  that 
portion — the  older  and  disused  portion — of  the 
castle,  she  strolled  beneath  the  narrow  archway  and 
entered  a  court.  This  court  was  surrounded  on  two 
sides  by  the  most  ancient  buildings  of  the  castle. 

Along  a  cloistered  passage  she  continued,  still 
guided  by  the  idle  impulse,  through  another  arch 
way  beneath  the  old  baronial  hall  until  she  came  out 
into  a  garden.  This  garden  was  the  original  terrace 
of  the  castle  and  dated  from  William  the  Con 
queror.  Now,  long  neglected,  it  seemed  an  orgie 
of  shrubs  and  weeds  and  flowers.  Vines  not 
trimmed  in  years  covered  the  old  stones  of  the  castle 
wall,  and  hung  in  heavy  festoons  from  windows, 
cornices  and  from  vases  on  the  balustrade. 


Lady   Octavia's  Discovery       25 

With  half  closed  eyes  Lady  Octavia  stood  for 
a  moment,  breathing  the  fragrance  of  this  almost 
forgotten  garden.  Then,  looking  over  the  tops  of 
the  oaks,  her  eyes  followed  the  shining  river  until 
it  disappeared  among  the  far  away  woods  and  hills. 
And  she  gazed  reverently — as  she  had  always  done 
— upon  the  stupendous  ruins,  close  beside  her,  of 
the  round  tower  of  Norman  days,  now  almost  hid 
den  beneath  its  ivy. 

Whenever  she  came  to  this  garden — a  favorite 
resort  in  her  childhood — it  had  always  stirred  her 
imagination.  It  impressed  her  as  a  spot  for  roman 
tic  happenings — of  legendary  deeds,  long  since  for 
gotten.  She  had  likened  it  to  the  Garden  of  the 
Sleeping  Beauty.  A  nearby  statue  of  a  dancing 
cupid  seemed  trying  vainly  to  recall  the  triumphs  of 
his  earlier  days.  The  old  fountain  with  its  stone 
basin  almost  hidden  in  a  tangle  of  neglected  roses 
gave,  in  its  waterless  silence,  the  final  touch  of 
melancholy. 

But  now,  of  course,  all  was  smiling  beneath  the 
morning  sun.  Strolling  along  a  weed  grown  path, 
between  rows  of  untrimmed  box,  Lady  Octavia 
heard  a  sound  in  her  vicinity  that  was  not  in  har 
mony  with  the  forgotten  stories  of  the  little  garden, 
nor  with  her  own  thoughts.  She  stopped — and 
frowned.  A  man  was  whistling.  Very  near  it 
sounded,  yet  no  man  was  visible.  The  whistling 
seemed  to  come  from  the  wall  itself.  Looking  up 
at  a  great  mullioned  window  just  above  her  she  no- 


26  Pandora's    Box 

ticed  that  one  of  the  swinging  casements  was  open. 
And  as  she  stood  there  the  whistling  ceased,  sud 
denly,  in  the  middle  of  a  note.  It  was  followed,  a 
moment  later,  by  a  very  low  singing,  or  rather  hum 
ming,  as  of  a  man  absorbed  in  his  work  and  who 
paid  little  attention  to  the  kind  of  sound  he  pro 
duced.  This,  also,  was  of  brief  duration;  then  fol 
lowed  another  silence. 

She  felt  a  gentle  curiosity  to  know  the  kind  of 
mental  or  mechanical  effort  these  fitful  utterances 
were  assisting. 

So,  Lady  Octavia,  in  her  gingham  apron,  her  old 
straw  hat  and  soiled  gloves,  with  her  trowel  in  one 
hand,  a  little  flower  basket  in  the  other,  entered  a 
passage,  ascended  a  few  stone  steps  to  her  left  and 
stood  at  the  doorway  of  the  old  Baronial  Hall. 

As  she  paused  for  a  moment  in  this  doorway,  she 
saw  a  man  standing  on  a  chair,  before  a  table,  his 
back  toward  her.  Lady  Octavia  had  a  sense  of 
humor,  and  a  smile  came  to  her  lips.  For  on  this 
workman's  blouse — a  grey  linen  blouse  such  as 
French  mechanics  wear — were  two  enormous  letters, 
E.  L.  painted  in  black  paint,  and  so  large  as  to  cover 
the  entire  back  of  the  garment.  She  smiled  because 
the  liberal  dimensions  and  conspicuousness  of  the 
two  initials  seemed  to  indicate  a  needless  anxiety  on 
the  part  of  the  wearer  lest  this  treasure  might  be 
claimed  by  others. 

The  room  at  whose  doorway  she  now  stood,  the 
primitive  Baronial  Hall  of  the  Castle,  was  built  in 


Lady  Octavia's    Discovery       27 

the  twelfth  century  by  Richard  of  Drumworth.  It 
was  long  and  wide  and  high,  with  an  open  timbered 
roof,  high  mullioned  windows  with  deep  recesses, 
and  no  furniture  save  a  massive  oaken  table  and  a 
few  ancient,  high-backed  chairs.  Along  the  sides 
ran  a  high  wainscot  of  oak,  now  black  with  age. 
Against  its  walls,  discolored  by  time,  hung  arms  and 
armor  with  portraits  of  many  Drumworths,  long 
since  departed.  The  heavy  table  at  which  this 
stranger  worked  had  been  drawn,  for  better  light, 
near  the  alcove  of  the  great  window. 

While  she  was  pausing  for  a  moment  in  the  door 
way  the  man  jumped  down  from  the  chair — or 
stool — and  went  on  with  his  work.  Large  sheets  of 
white  paper  were  before  him.  He  seemed  to  be 
drawing  something. 

The  Daughter  of  the  Castle  entered.  She  had  ap 
proached  within  a  very  few  feet  of  the  draughtsman 
before  he  became  aware  of  her  presence.  Then  he 
turned  his  head.  His  visitor,  with  a  careless  glance 
at  his  face,  approached  the  table  and  stood  beside 
him,  looking  down  at  his  drawing. 

After  rising  and  acknowledging  her  presence  by 
a  slight  bow,  which  she  returned  with  a  condescend 
ing  movement  of  her  own  head,  the  workman  re 
sumed  his  seat. 

"Why,"  she  exclaimed  in  mild  surprise,  "that  is 
the  outside  of  this  castle !" 

"Yes." 

"It  is  the  old  ruined  tower,  rebuilt !" 


28  Pandora's    Box 

"Yes." 

"Very  interesting.  Is  that  the  way  it  looked, 
'Originally?" 

"Well,  possibly,  as  near  as  one  can  tell." 

"But  how  do  you  know  it  had  a  top  like  that, 
with  those  battlements?" 

He  reached  over,  took  up  an  old  woodcut  and  laid 
it  on  the  table  before  her.  It  was  a  view  of  Drum- 
worth  Castle,  made  many  years  ago,  evidently  torn 
from  a  book.  In  the  foreground  was  an  attacking 
army,  with  tents,  scaling-ladders,  catapults,  batter 
ing-rams  and  all  the  medieval  implements  of  as 
sault.  It  showed  the  fortress  as  it  was,  or  might 
have  been,  five  centuries  ago. 

Lady  Octavia  took  up  the  picture  and  studied 
it.  "I  never  saw  this  before.  How  very  interest 
ing!  Is  it  from  some  old  book?" 

"Probably.    It  was  picked  up  in  a  print  shop." 

As  she  studied  the  picture  in  silence  he  went  on 
with  his  work.  The  action  seemed  to  imply  a  cer 
tain  indifference  to — or  failure  to  realize — the  qual 
ity  of  his  visitor.  This  apparent  indifference  to  her 
presence  was  something  new  for  Lady  Octavia,  and, 
silently,  she  resented  it.  At  the  same  moment,  how 
ever,  she  remembered  her  present  attire,  the  old 
hat,  the  soiled  garden  gloves  and  the  gingham 
apron.  A  faint  smile,  unobserved  by  the  workman, 
came  to  her  lips;  and  with  it  came  an  entertaining 
idea.  Why  not  continue  the  deception?  Perhaps 
he  took  her  for  the  gardener's  daughter.  Being  an 


Lady   Octavia's  Discovery       29 

ignorant  man — a  common  person — he  would  natu 
rally  be  deceived  by  superficial  things. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here?" 

"Three  days." 

"Do  you  come  from  London?" 

"Yes,  I  came  here  from  London." 

"You  are  an  architect,  I  suppose/' 

"Well,  I  try  to  think  so." 

"For  whom  are  you  doing  this?"  she  asked. 

"For  an  architectural  firm." 

"It  is  they  who  hire  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Not  the  Earl  of  Drumworth  nor  his  son?" 

"No." 

"But  they  know  you  are  here,  of  course?" 

"O  yes !    It  is  with  their  permission." 

After  standing  beside  this  man  a  moment  she 
became  deeply  interested  in  his  work.  Her  affection 
for  the  castle  was  so  deep  and  so  sincere  that  what 
ever  related  to  it  was  of  supreme  importance.  As 
a  child  she  had  played  in  every  court  and  garden, 
among  all  its  stairs  and  corridors,  through  all  its 
halls  and  towers.  Now,  to  see  its  dismantled  walls 
come  forth,  on  paper,  and  rise  again  in  their  departed 
majesty — their  forgotten  beauty — brought  a  thrill 
of  pleasure  and  of  pride.  The  crumbling  ivy-covered 
ruins  on  the  eastern  corner  had  risen  in  this  man's 
.hands — on  paper — to  a  stately  height.  On  the 
crowning  parapet  of  this  tower  he  was  now  at  work. 

"Is  that  the  way  the  old  tower  looked  originally  ?" 


30  Pandora's  Box 

He  stood  a  little  to  one  side,  that  she  might  see  it 
better. 

"Why,  yes;  as  near  as  I  can  restore  it." 

"But  how  do  you  know?  That  tower  does  not 
s4iow  in  this  picture." 

"No.  But  one  goes  by  a  general  knowledge  of 
how  such  a  tower  of  that  period,  of  these  dimen 
sions  and  in  such  a  position,  was  likely  to  appear." 

"Then  it  is  not  absolutely  correct,  after  all." 

"Possibly  not,  in  the  sense  of  being  an  absolute 
ly  faithful  reproduction  of  the  original.  But  it  is 
safe  to  believe,  from  the  towers  already  standing, 
that  it  resembled  one  of  these." 

He  took  up  four  other  drawings  on  tracing 
paper,  of  the  same  tower,  and  laid  them  before  her. 

"Yes,  that  is  true,"  she  murmured,  "they  all  seem 
probable." 

"Which  do  you  like  the  best?"  he  asked. 

"I  like  them  all." 

"But  which  do  you  prefer?" 

"I  am  no  judge.  I  know  too  little  of  architec 
ture." 

However,  she  laid  a  finger — in  the  soiled  garden 
glove — upon  one  of  the  tracings. 

"I  think  I  prefer  that  one." 

"So  do  I !" 

And  in  his  voice,  as  he  spoke,  there  was  a  slight 
note  of  enthusiasm,  almost  boyish;  and  a  suggestion 
of  a  friendly  appreciation  of  her  good  judgment — 
as  if  glad  to  receive  her  approval  of  his  own  de 
cision. 


Lady   Octavia's  Discovery       3* 

"It  is  simpler  and  more  imposing,"  he  exclaimed. 
"There  is  more  dignity  in  the  plain  walls  and  heavy 
cornice." 

She  smiled,  and  nodded  assent.  She  began  to 
like  this  man. 

"I  will  show  you,"  he  said,  "how  it  looks  with 
the  rest  of  the  castle." 

And  laying  a  piece  of  tracing  paper  over  this 
drawing  he  proceeded  to  sketch  the  tower  of  their 
choice.  He  drew  it  rapidly  and  with  what  seemed 
to  her  a  marvelous  facility  and  precision;  and  all 
with  picturesque  effect. 

She  looked  on  in  surprise — and  admiration — as 
this  new  tower  took  shape  beneath  his  pencil.  She 
herself  could  sketch  in  an  amateurish  way;  but  it 
bore  no  resemblance  to  this  man's  work.  His  artis 
tic  sense  and  architectural  knowledge  inspired  her 
with  a  sincere  respect. 

After  looking  on  in  silent  admiration  she  mur 
mured  at  last,  involuntarily: 

"How  well  you  do  it !" 

He  made  a  little  bow  of  acknowledgment,  slight 
ly  exaggerated  and  half  in  jest. 

"Thank  you." 

Again  Lady  Octavia  resented,  in  silence,  this  fa 
miliar  manner,  and  again  she  remembered  that  she 
was  being  treated  as  the  gardener's  daughter.  But 
she  began  to  find  pleasure  in  the  situation.  It  was 
a  new  experience.  She  resolved  to  regard  it  as  an 
amusing  adventure. 


32  Pandora's   Box 

"You  must  enjoy  your  work/* 

"Indeed  I  do!  Life  is  worth  living  when  one's 
-labor  is  more  absorbing  than  one's  amusements." 

As  he  spoke,  he  raised  his  head,  and  their  eyes 
met.  This  was  her  first  real  knowledge  of  his  face ; 
for,  being  a  workman  in  a  blouse,  he  had  received 
but  a  thoughtless  glance.  The  eyes  into  which  she 
now  found  herself  looking  brought  a  mild  sur 
prise — not  so  much  from  anything  startling  in  their 
appearance  as  from  elusive  memories  they  aroused. 
These  memories,  shadowy  and  indefinable,  seemed 
related  to  a  far  away  period— to  her  childhood 
days.  For  an  instant  she  struggled  to  reunite  the 
broken  threads,  but  in  vain.  They  were  strangely 
familiar,  these  eyes.  They  were  a  light  gray — or 
blue,  perhaps — with  lashes  almost  black,  and  a  pe 
culiar  upward  turn  to  the  eyebrows.  Their  ex 
pression,  too,  serene  and  very  friendly,  caused  a 
mild  bewilderment.  She  seemed  looking  into  the 
face  of  an  old  friend,  some  intimate  companion  of 
her  childhood  whom  she  had  known — and  liked. 

Failing  in  her  involuntary  effort  to  connect  these 
eyes  with  that  other  pair  of  eyes  of  which  these 
were  the  counterpart,  she  lowered  her  glance  to  the 
drawings  of  the  castle.  And  a  slightly  warmer 
color  came  into  her  cheeks  as  she  realized  the  very 
earnest  manner  in  which  she  had  stared  at  him. 

Merely  to  break  the  silence,  and  to  relieve  her 
own  embarrassment  she  said: 


Lady   Octavia's   Discovery       33 

"I  see  you  have  a  man  in  armor  over  the  gateway 
in  one  drawing  but  not  in  this  last  one." 

"Yes.  I  copied  it  from  that  old  chap  up  there." 
And  he  pointed  across  the  room  to  a  suit  of  four 
teenth-century  armor,  standing  beside  the  old  chim 
ney.  Lady  Octavia  frowned.  To  hear  a  sainted 
ancestor,  a  hero  of  historic  battles,  the  renowned 
Richard  of  Drumworth  called  "that  old  chap/'  sent 
a  thrill  of  resentment  through  every  nerve  of  her 
patrician  being.  But  calmly  she  replied: 

"He  is  believed  by  those  familiar  with  English 
history  to  have  brought  more  glory  to  the  house 
of  Drumworth  than  any  other  soldier." 

"But  such  easy  glory,  and  so  cheap !" 

Lady  Octavia  almost  gasped. 

"Cheap!" 

The  workman,  without  looking  up  from  his 
drawings  repeated  quietly: 

"Cheap  and  easy.  Yes.  I  rubbed  him  out.  It 
was  doing  him  too  much  honor." 

"Indeed!    It  might  be  interesting  to  know  why." 

"Well,  that  suit  of  armor  is  a  wonderful  piece 
of  work.  I  have  been  examining  it.  From  crown 
to  toe  there  is  not  a  weak  place  in  it.  Not  an  open 
joint — no  crack  for  foe  to  enter." 

"I  fail  to  see  how  the  merit  of  a  soldier's  armor 
detracts  from  the  merit  of  the  man  himself." 

"But  don't  you  see  that  in  such  a  get  up  he  was 
as  safe  in  the  thick  of  battle  as  at  home  in  his  own 


34  Pandora's    Box 

bed?  Wasn't  it  Gustavus  Adolphus  who  was  cap 
tured  in  a  fight  and  his  enemies  had  him  on  the 
ground  for  half  an  hour  trying  to  find  a  place  in 
his  armor  to  stab  him?" 

"I  know  nothing  about  it." 

"Well,  whoever  it  was — they  worked  in  vain 
until  he  was  rescued  by  his  friends.  War  in  those 
days,  for  a  well  equipped  gentleman,  was  like  sit 
ting  at  a  window  and  shooting  peasants  as  they 
hammer  the  walls  of  your  house." 

The  lady  tried  hard  to  suppress  her  indignation. 
"Those  he  fought  against  wore  armor  just  as  good." 

"Yes,  a  few  of  them.  The  great  mass,  however, 
the  rank  and  file  he  had  the  fun  with,  were  clad  in 
homespun — or  leather,  with  possibly  a  casque  or  a 
breast-plate.  It  was  they  who  took  chances,  and 
who,  incidentally,  got  very  little  credit.  Perhaps 
there  was  very  little  credit  to  go  round  and  the 
ironclads  needed  all." 

Lady  Octavia's  chin  had  risen  a  little  higher. 
There  was  anger  in  her  eyes.  But  the  draughtsman 
was  unobservant. 

"That  armor,"  she  replied,  "was  worn  by  Richard 
of  Drumworth  at  the  battle  of  Agincourt.  He  was 
a  distinguished  soldier  of  his  time,  and  considered 
the  right  hand  in  battle  of  Henry  the  Fifth.  It  is 
somewhat  novel  to  hear  him  called  a  coward,  and  by 
a— by  a—" 

The  draughtsman  caught  her  eye  and  laughed. 
"—By  a  thing  like  me  ?  Oh,  well,  I  didn't  really  call 


Lady  Octavia's   Discovery       35 

him  a  coward.  A  man  is  not  a  coward  because  he 
goes  a  hunting.  And  this  Richard  chap  was  not 
necessarily  a  coward  because  he  slashed  around  in 
safety  among  the  unarmored  soldiers.  It  was  his 
idea  of  sport.  We  must  blame  the  times  more  than 
the  individual." 

Lady  Octavia  made  no  reply.  Her  face,  however, 
was  expressing  as  much  severity  as  she  could  sum 
mon. 

But  the  draughtsman  went  on.  "Perhaps  you 
remember,  or  don't  remember,  or  never  read,  Mr. 
William  Shakespeare's  play  of  Henry  the  Fifth." 

"I  have  read  it." 

"In  describing  the  night  before  that  battle  of 
Agincourt  he  says: 

And  from  the  tents, 

The  armourers,  accomplishing  the  knights, 
With  busy  hammers  closing  rivets  up, 
Give  dreadful  note  of  preparation. 

Really  now,  there  is  a  humorous  side  to  it,  isn't 
there?  Why,  just  imagine  yourself  a  common  sol 
dier  and  encountering  one  of  these  knights  in  a 
battle.  Every  time  he  struck  you  he  would  draw 
blood.  And  you — well,  you  might  as  well  be  ham 
mering  a  kitchen  boiler." 

Lady  Octavia's  breath  came  a  little  quicker,  and 
another  flush  was  in  her  cheeks. 

"Of  course,  there  was  always  the  chance,"  he 
went  on,  "of  a  horse  falling  under  all  that  weight 
of  junk.  The  only  real  danger,  however,  was  for 


36  Pandora's  Box 

the  horse,  who  must  have  found  mighty  little  fun 
in  rolling  over  on  a  cluster  of  iron  cylinders  with 
spurs  at  one  end  and  a  sort  of  teakettle  at  the 
other." 

As  for  the  daughter  of  the  castle,  she  had  re 
ceived  a  shock.  This  new  light  so  suddenly  turned 
upon  a  glorified  ancestor  had  kindled  a  sudden,  al 
most  solemn,  indignation.  There  was  a  brief  si 
lence,  in  which  her  eyes  moved  haughtily  from  the 
head  of  the  workman  to  the  suit  of  armor,  out  of 
which  the  spirit  of  the  invincible  Richard  of  Drum- 
worth,  right  hand  in  battle  of  Henry  V,  seemed 
regarding  her  with  silent  but  portentous  anger. 
Was  he  rebuking  her  as  a  traitor  to  her  own  blood  ? 

"Perhaps  you  would  not  have  said  these  things 
to  the  man  himself." 

"Not  when  he  had  his  armor  on.  It  would  be 
like  quarreling  with  a  lamp-post." 

Looking  up  into  the  maiden's  face  the  draughts 
man  was  confronted  by  two  outraged  eyes. 

He  returned  this  look  with  the  calmest  of  smiles — 
amiable  and  frank.  "Please  do  not  think  I  wish 
to  disparage  this  famous  killer.  I  am  only  saying 
that  he  is  not  my  own  idea  of  a  hero.  If  I  were  a 
Drumworth  I  should  never  give  his  effigy  that  place 
of  honor." 

But  the  feelings  of  Lady  Octavia  had  been  griev 
ously  wounded.  She  resented  this  profanation  of 
the  memory  of  a  splendid  soldier.  Family  idols, 
heroes  of  childhood,  may  not  be  slurred  with  im- 


Lady   Octavia's   Discovery       37 

punity.  If  great  founders  of  historic  houses  are  to 
be  maligned  and  belittled  by  common  people — such 
as  this  man — then,  what  next? 

With  a  smile,  such  as  one  old  friend  might  bestow 
upon  another,  he  inquired : 

"Is  he  a  hero  of  yours?" 

"Who?" 

"Our  metallic  friend." 

Lady  Octavia  made  another  effort  to  conceal  her 
anger.  Calmly  she  answered: 

"Yes — in  a  way." 

"Then  allow  me  to  apologize  for  my  comments. 
I  am  afraid  I  have  offended  you." 

"It  doesn't  matter." 

"Oh,  indeed  it  does!  I  am  very  sorry.  Please 
forgive  me." 

"Certainly.     There  is  nothing  to  forgive." 

But,  too  proud  to  argue,  she  turned  in  silence  and 
walked  slowly  away.  And  she  moved  with  the  grace 
and  the  easy  disdain  that  became  the  descendant  of  a 
hundred  earls. 


IV 

AN  IDOL  TOTTERS 

SLOWLY,  under  the  cloistered  arches,  through 
her  own  garden  and  then  along  the  great  ter 
race,  walked  Lady  Octavia,  with  puzzled  brow 
and  absent  look.  At  intervals  she  closed  her  eyes  as  a 
help  to  concentration.  She  was  striving  vainly  to 
recall  the  forgotten  person  to  whom  this  architect 
bore  so  strange  a  resemblance.  It  seemed,  at  mo 
ments,  as  if  the  face  of  some  old  time  friend  was 
returning  at  her  summons.  By  closing  her  eyes 
she  could  almost  see  it.  Within  her  vision,  however, 
it  refused  to  come. 

While  interested  in  this  draughtsman's  work  she 
was,  at  the  same  time,  indignant — and  shocked. 
Shocked  that  a  workman  in  a  blouse  should  doubt 
the  quality  of  the  greatest  warrior  of  her  house; 
angry  with  herself  for  being  influenced  by*his  words. 
Yet,  after  all,  it  was  incontestable  that  the  great 
Richard  of  Drumworth,  with  other  ironclad  heroes, 
was  safer  in  his  armor  than  out  of  it.  Or  why 
should  they  have  worn  it?  And  surely,  as  this  im 
pertinent  draughtsman  had  asserted,  the  common 
men  on  foot,  in  homespun  and  in  leather,  had  shown, 

38 


An   Idol  Totters  39 

at  least,  an  equal  courage.  Moreover,  her  irrita 
tion  was  not  diminished  by  the  consciousness  that 
the  great  Richard,  as  an  embodiment  of  reckless 
heroism,  had  dropped  a  peg  or  two  in  her  esteem. 
She  realized,  with  sorrow,  that  the  fine  edge  of  her 
idolatry  was  dulled.  And  to  her  dismay  she  found 
that  the  more  she  pondered  the  more  she  doubted. 
And  doubts  concerning  this  sainted  ancestor  were 
so  distressing  that  at  lunch  this  day,  feeling  the  need 
of  support  for  her  wavering  adoration,  she  re 
marked  carelessly: 

"Wouldn't  it  be  dreadful  if  our  great  Richard 
was  something  of  a  humbug,  like  so  many  others?" 

At  the  table  was  her  great-aunt,  the  Lady  Georgi- 
ana,  and  her  father,  Lord  Aylesden.  Her  grand 
father,  the  Earl  of  Drumworth,  was  absent. 

Auntie  George  followed  her  niece's  glance  to 
ward  the  full  length  portrait  of  the  man  in  armor 
that  hung  against  the  wall,  then  raised  her  eye 
brows. 

"Something  of  a  what?" 

"Of  a  humbug." 

Auntie  George  straightened  up.  Always  erect, 
with  a  spine  that  never  bent — she  now  stiffened  yet 
a  little  more.  Her  face  also  stiffened.  Although 
Lady  Georgiana's  features  were  faultless,  she  had 
never  been  a  beauty.  Perhaps  a  superabundant,  un 
quenchable  confidence  in  herself,  together  with  her 
pride  of  birth,  and  certain  dominant  qualities,  had 
hardened  her  expression.  But,  whatever  the  rea- 


40  Pandora's    Box 

son,  no  man  had  pursued  her.  She  had  frightened 
the  timid;  and  those  braver  men  who  might  have 
won  her  had  reconsidered  and  had  wedded  else 
where. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Octavia?" 
"Why,  I  mean  by  going  into  battle  so  well  pro 
tected  in  his  iron  clothes  that  nobody  could  hurt 
him.     And  then  killing  common  soldiers  who  had 
no  protection  in  the  way  of  armor." 

Auntie  George,  for  an  instant,  seemed  dazed  by 
the  novelty — or  the  sacrilege — of  the  suggestion. 
She  stopped  eating  and  regarded  her  niece  in  si 
lence.  With  eyebrows  still  elevated  she  blinked  as 
one  who  slowly  recovers  consciousness  after  a  shock. 
Lord  Aylesden  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  re 
garded  his  daughter  with  a  look  of  surprise.  This 
look  was  followed  by  a  frown,  then,  slowly,  by  a 
smile.  Lord  Aylesden's  face  had  never  been  ad 
dicted  to  rapid  changes  of  expression. 

"Well,  by  Jove,  Octavia!  There's  an  idea  in 
that!" 

"An  idea  indeed !"  exclaimed  Auntie  George.  "A 
most  extraordinary  idea!" 

Lord  Aylesden  turned  and  also  regarded  the  an 
cestral  portrait.  "I  never  thought  of  that  before." 

"I  should  hope  not,"  said  Auntie  George.  "And 
I  am  sorry,  Octavia,  that  a  Drumworth  should  try 
to  belittle  the  glory  and  tarnish  the  memory  of  a 
great  ancestor — the  heroic  founder  of  a  splendid 
house." 


An  Idol  Totters  4* 

"But  I  don't  Auntie  George.  I  felt  just  that  way 
myself." 

"Felt  that  way!     When?     Why  not  always?" 

Octavia  showed  a  slight  embarrassment.  "I  do 
feel  that  way  now." 

"Then  why  say  such  things?" 

"Oh,  it  just  came  into  my  head,  I  suppose." 

"Well,  don't  harbor  such  thoughts.  It  is  the 
kind  of  sentiment  one  might  expect  from  a  labor 
agitator,  an  anarchist,  or  some  destructive,  envious, 
common  person." 

On  the  face  of  Octavia's  father,  however,  the 
smile  still  remained.  "But  you  must  admit,  Auntie 
George,  that  the  idea  is — er — original." 

"Original!    Yes.     And  ridiculous." 

"Well,  now,  really  it  seems  to  me,  you  know, 
there  is  some  truth  in  it." 

"Not  a  particle  of  truth  or  sense  in  it!  Many  of 
those  against  whom  he  fought  were  also  in  armor." 

"And  were  also  quite  safe." 

"Not  at  all.  At  Agincourt,  for  instance,  where 
Richard  of  Drumworth  covered  himself  with  glory, 
many  gentlemen  in  armor  on  both  sides  were 
killed." 

"You  mean,"  and  Octavia  kept  a  serious  face, 
"that  each  gentleman  had  armor  on  both  sides  ?" 

"I  do  not.  I  mean  a  great  many  noblemen  in 
armor,  both  French  and  English,  were  slain." 

"No,  Auntie  George,  excuse  me.  Very  few  gen 
tlemen  in  armor  were  killed.  I  have  just  been  look- 


42  Pandora's   Box 

ing  it  up.     I  mean,  of  course,  compared  with  the 

common  soldiers." 

A  short  silence  followed,  broken  by  Lady  Georgi- 

ana,  who  regarded  her  niece  with  half  closed  eyes. 

''Why  should  you  look  it  up,  Octavia?" 
"To  see  if  there  was  any  truth  in  it." 
"And  was  this  a  belief  of  your  own  that  you 

wished  to  verify?" 

"Why,  no.     I  did  not  wish  to  believe  it." 
"Then  who  put  such  an  idea  into  your  head?" 
For  an  instant  Octavia  hesitated.     As  her  eyes, 

however,  in  her  uncertainty  turned  again  toward  the 

painting,  Richard  of  Drumworth  himself  came  to 

the  rescue.     "It  might  occur  to  anybody,  don't  you 

think,  just  from  looking  at  the  portrait?    The  man 

inside  was  so  very,  very  safe." 
"Most  certainly  I  do  not." 
"But  he  wore  his  armor  for  protection,  didn't 

he?" 

"Of  course." 

"And  he  was  well  protected  or  he  would  not  have 

bothered  with  such  a  clumsy  thing." 

"Certainly.    And  he  was  wise  to  do  it." 

"Oh,  yes!     No  one  doubts  his  wisdom,  Auntie 

George." 

"Octavia,  I  am  really  ashamed  of  you." 
Again  Lord  Aylesden  smiled,  then  frowned  and 

shook  his  head.    "So  am  I,  Octavia.    You  must  not 

upset     our     enjoyable     beliefs     by     such     wicked 

thoughts." 


An  Idol  Totters  43 

"But  I  have  another  thought  that  is  wickeder 
still." 

Lady  Georgiana  elevated  her  chin  and  studied 
her  niece  with  renewed  suspicion.  "What  have  you 
been  reading,  Octavia?  Or  with  whom  have  you 
been  talking?" 

"Why,  Auntie  George,  cannot  one  have  ideas 
without  getting  them  from  books  or  other  people  ?" 

"Not  such  ideas  as  you  seem  to  be  indulging  in  at 
present.  At  least  I  should  hope  not." 

"Well,  give  us  the  wickeder  thought,"  said  her 
father.  "You  probably  will  not  be  happy  until  it  is 
out" 

"Well,  everybody  that  looks  at  that  portrait  is 
impressed  by  his  having  fought  at  Agincourt.  And 
we — all  the  family — are  proud  of  it." 

"Naturally,"  from  Auntie  George. 

"But  none  of  our  peasantry  have  portraits  of 
their  ancestors,  who  also  fought  at  Agincourt.  And 
those  ancestors,  who  fought  without  armor,  may 
have  shown,  perhaps,  more  courage  than  ours." 

Lord  Aylesden  lowered  a  glass  of  wine  which  was 
approaching  his  lips.  "I  say,  Octavia,  aren't  you 
rather  rubbing  it  in?" 

For  an  instant  Lady  Georgiana  was  dumb. 
Quickly  recovering  herself,  however,  and  with  a 
frown  of  severest  disapproval,  she  was  about  to  re 
ply.  Instead,  she  turned  a  cautionary  glance  toward 
an  approaching  butler  and  the  subject  was  dropped. 

When  Octavia,  on  the  following  morning,  entered 


44  Pandora's   Box 

her  own  little  garden  for  an  hour's  work,  her  re 
sentment  toward  the  invading  draughtsman  and  his 
impertinence  was  still  active — so  active,  in  fact,  that 
she  puttered  among  her  flowers  for  several  minutes 
in  the  sincere  belief  that  she  was  not  to  encourage 
him  by  another  visit.  As  the  moments  passed,  how 
ever,  her  thoughts  continually  and  with  mortifying 
persistence  reverted  to  the  welcome  excitement  of 
his  startling  utterances  and  to  the  unsolved  mystery 
of  his  curiously  familiar  eyes.  At  last  she  drew  a 
long  and  resolute  breath  of  the  delicious  June  morn 
ing  and  again  passed  beneath  the  narrow  arch. 

Still  at  work  in  his  ridiculous  blouse,  with  his 
back  and  its  enormous  initials  toward  the  door,  he 
was,  nevertheless,  aware  of  her  presence  as  soon  as 
she  entered  the  room.  He  arose,  turned  about  and 
greeted  her  with  a  smiling  "good  morning." 

She  returned  the  greeting  more  formally,  and  ap 
proached  the  table.  He  stood  aside  that  she  might 
better  survey  his  work. 

"Why,  you  have  put  the  man  in  armor  over  the 
entrance !" 

"Yes.     How  do  you  like  him?" 

"I  don't  like  him.     Please  take  him  out." 

Raising  his  eyebrows  he  regarded  her  in  sur 
prise.  "But  I  put  him  there  because  you  liked 
him." 

"I  have  changed  my  mind." 

"Well,  women  do  beat  the  Dutch !" 

"Do  what?" 

"Beat  the  Dutch." 


An  Idol  Totters  45 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?'* 

"That  is  a  way  of  saying  that  women — that 
women — ' 

"Are  fickle?" 

"No ;  not  at  all !  That  women  are — superior  even 
to  the  Dutch.  That  they — women — are  full  of  sur 
prises." 

"Very  likely.  But  I  have  changed  my  mind  about 
men  in  armor.  You  are  entirely  right.  They  do 
not  stand  for  the  highest  courage." 

"But  yesterday  you  were  angry  with  me  for  say 
ing  so." 

"Not  really  angry,"  and  Lady  Octavia  smiled 
without  raising  her  eyes  from  the  drawing. 

"That  is  good  news.  In  the  meantime  I  have 
repented,  reformed,  and  given  him  the  place  of 
honor." 

"And  I,  in  the  meantime,  have  grown  wiser.  You 
must  take  him  out." 

"Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  a  matter  for  others  to 
decide.  Neither  you  nor  I  own  the  castle,  Miss 
Gardener." 

At  this  name,  which  seemed  a  liberty,  yet  certainly 
was  appropriate,  she  involuntarily  gave  him  a  look 
of  surprise.  Then  she  lowered  her  eyes  to  the  draw 
ing  and  replied,  quite  soberly : 

"Very  true.  But  I  think  it  a  question  the  archi 
tect  should  decide.  So  please  take  him  out." 

And  in  the  manner  of  one  who  is  accustomed  to 
being  obeyed  she  turned  away  and  seated  herself 
in  the  great  Elizabethan  window. 


V 

MORE  UNEDUCATING 

THROUGH  the  open  casement  of  this  window 
there  came,  with  the  morning  sunshine,  the 
perfume  of  flowers  from  the  old  garden  be 
neath — the  Garden  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty. 

Closing  her  eyes,  Lady  Octavia  inhaled  this  fra 
grance.  Upon  her  head  and  shoulders,  upon  the 
wall  beside  her,  upon  the  seat  and  the  old  stone  floor, 
fell  a  splendor  of  many  tints  from  the  little  diamond 
shaped  panes  of  the  ancient  window.  The  colors  of 
this  window,  mostly  yellow  and  purple,  had  been 
softened  by  two  centuries  of  storm  and  sunshine. 

Lady  Octavia's  girlish  face,  the  old  straw  hat, 
the  graceful  head,  the  closed  eyes,  were  more  than 
enough  to  stir  a  young  man's  fancy.  Besides,  it  was 
a  poet's  day  in  June.  The  morning  air  that  floated 
lazily  in  through  the  open  casement,  a  languorous, 
tempting  zephyr,  laden  with  unconventional  mes 
sages  was,  in  itself,  an  invitation  to  lovers'  dreams. 

With  an  elbow  on  the  drawing  of  the  castle, 
his  chin  in  his  hand,  his  eyes  upon  this  glowing 
creature  in  the  window,  so  near  yet  so  very — so 
very  far  away,  the  draughtsman  indulged,  uncon- 

46 


More   Uneducating  47 

sciously,  in  a  sigh  that  might  have  stirred  an  iceberg. 
It  barely  reached  the  lady's  ears;  but  her  eyes 
opened.  And  although  they  opened  slowly,  they 
caught  him  unawares.  He  blushed  like  a  schoolboy, 
lowered  his  glance,  and  resumed  his  work.  In  the 
hope  of  diverting  attention  from  this  embarrass 
ment,  he  inquired: 

"Who  shall  replace  the  dishonored  man  in  ar 
mor?" 

She  turned  away  and  again  closed  her  eyes  a  mo 
ment  before  replying.  "Why  not  put  in  a  common 
soldier — one  of  those  who  bore  the  brunt  of  battle?" 

"Oh,  desecrate  a  feudal  castle  by  the  effigy  of  a 
plebeian!  There  is  no  record  in  history  of  a  self 
respecting  lordship  putting  an  humble  follower 
in  such  a  place  of  honor.  The  Earl  of  Drumworth 
would  never  consent ;  nor  Lord  Aylesden ;  nor  Lady 
Georgiana,  nor  Lady  Octavia." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  about  Lady  Octavia." 

"I  should  never  dare  ask  her." 

"She  is  not  so  unreasonable  as  you  think,  per 
haps." 

Solemnly  the  draughtsman  shook  his  head.  "Well, 
it  is  mightily  to  her  credit  if  she  is  not,  with  every 
thing  against  her." 

"Everything  against  her?" 

"Yes.  All  the  traditions  of  her  family.  To  say 
nothing  of  her  bringing  up." 

"Ah,  indeed !    Was  she  so  badly  brought  up  ?" 


48  Pandora's    Box 

"Perhaps  not  for  so  important  an  only  child. 
But  for  a  nice,  enjoyable  human  woman,  yes." 

"Indeed!" 

He  nodded,  still  bending  over  his  work.  "Of 
course,  as  a  stranger  in  these  parts  I  can  only  judge 
from  what  I  hear.  But  we  all  know  how  an  only 
child  is  apt  to  turn  out — and  especially  an  only 
daughter  with  a  lot  of  obsequious  friends." 

Octavia  frowned.  Furtively  she  studied  the 
speaker.  Was  he  simply  impertinent — and  enter 
taining  himself  at  her  expense?  After  a  rapid  but 
searching  study  of  his  serenely  s-erious  countenance 
she  decided  he  was  in  earnest. 

Placidly  he  continued :  "In  spite  of  all  temptations 
she  has  developed,  I  understand,  into  a  surprisingly 
fine  woman — thoughtful,  generous,  lovable,  adored 
by  the  surrounding  country.  Should  anyone  treat 
her  with  disrespect,  or  even  harbor  the  intent,  I 
believe  that 

Twenty  thousand  Cornishmen  would  know  the  reason  why.** 

Then,  straightening  up  and  turning  toward  her 
with  a  smile,  yet  with  a  tone  of  conviction: 

"She  elevates  the  tone  of  the  whole  community. 
When  people  in  the  village  speak  of  her  a  different 
expression  comes  into  their  faces.  They  lower  their 
voices.  The  very  mention  of  her  name  seems  to 
purify  the  atmosphere." 

Lady  Octavia,  hoping  that  her  heightened  color 
would  escape  his  notice,  acknowledged  this  tribute — 


More   Uneducating  49 

as  to  an  absent  person — with  a  slight  movement  of 
the  head,  and  again  turned  her  eyes  toward  the  gar 
den.  But  the  draughtsman,  his  own  eyes  again  upon 
his  work,  inquired  carelessly : 

"Do  you  think  she  is  going  to  marry  Lord  what's- 
his-name — Slapsford — Bapsford — Hepsford?" 

This  unexpected  question  brought  another  flush 
into  the  lady's  cheeks.  "Did  you  hear  that,  too,  in 
the  village?" 

"No." 

"Then  why  do  you  ask?" 

"Oh,  just  for  the  fun  of  it." 

"Then  it's  your  own  idea?" 

"And  his  too,  I  fancy." 

She  frowned,  straightened  up,  but  still  looked 
away  through  the  open  casement.  Carelessly  he 
added:  "If  he  never  had  that  idea  he  is  duller  than 
I  thought  him.  He  should  imitate  the 

young  man  of  Detroit 
Who  knew  a  good  thing  when  he  saw  it. 

However,  she  is  not  much  to  look  at,  is  she?" 

Again  the  color  flew  to  Octavia's  cheeks.  She 
was  mortified  at  being  the  subject  of  this  man's 
conversation. 

Frigidly  she  answered:  "I  am  no  judge." 

"You  are  familiar  with  her  face?" 

"Yes." 

"Also  a  great  admirer?" 


50  Pandora's   Box 

"Never!" 

'Then  I  can  tell  you  what  I  think.  The  people 
hereabouts  being  humble  minded  and  dazzled  by  her 
exalted  station,  have  endowed  a  warlike  spinster 
with  the  fascinations  of  a  turtle  dove.  That  is,  un 
less  appearances  are  deceptive.  I  met  her  face  to 
face  yesterday  afternoon  in  the  village.  She  was 
getting  out  of  a  Drumworth  motor." 

Now,  as  it  happened,  Octavia  was  not  in  the  vil 
lage  yesterday  afternoon. 

"She  is  short  but  fierce  of  aspect,"  continued  the 
draughtsman,  going  on  with  his  work,  "very  erect, 
very  determined,  and  I  should  hate  to  meet  her  alone 
on  a  dark  night.  Beauty,  they  say,  is  only  skin  deep, 
but  this  Lady  Octavia's  beauty  is  so  far  inside  that 
it  fails  to  reach  the  eye." 

Repressing  a  mild  resentment  at  this  unmistakable 
picture  of  her  Aunt  Georgiana,  she  remembered 
with  an  effort  that  this  man  believed  himself  chat 
ting  with  a  gardener's  daughter.  To  avoid  further 
talk  on  the  subject  she  arose,  again  stood  at  his 
shoulder  and  appeared  interested  in  his  work.  "We 
must  replace  that  knight  in  armor.  You  could  not 
do  better  than  honor  a  common  soldier,  one  of  those 
who  really  risked  their  lives." 

But  he  shook  his  head.  "That  would  be  an  un 
solicited  tribute  to  obscurity — a  wilful  encourage 
ment  to  modest  merit.  All  the  lords  of  Drum- 
worth  would  rise  from  their  graves  and  curse  us 
both." 


More   Uneducating  5* 

"You  seem  to  have  very  little  respect  for  the 
justice  of  the  lords  of  Drumworth." 

"They  are  no  worse  than  the  other  greedy  lords. 
But,  really,  you  know,  after  all,  it  is  not  to  a  man's 
discredit  that  he  has  a  title." 

"Indeed!" 

"Certainly  not.  The  title  comes  from  no  act  of 
his  own.  It  is  mighty  awkward  to  have  it  decreed, 
before  your  birth,  that  you  shall  be  a  superior  per 


son." 


He  turned  about,  and  the  gray  eyes  smiled  fa 
miliarly  into  her  own.  "You  agree  with  me,  I 
know." 

Her  own  eyes,  with  a  frown,  were  lowered  to  the 
drawing.  "I  do  not  agree  with  you." 

"Don't  you  see  that  I  am  apologizing  for  the 
nobility?  Would  you  blame  a  caterpillar,  for  in 
stance,  for  not  being  a  bishop?" 

"I  should  not  blame  the  poor  thing." 

"Then  why  praise  the  bishop  for  not  being  a  cater 
pillar?" 

"I  happen  to  have  more  respect  for  bishops  than 
for  caterpillars." 

"Do  you  prefer  a  bad  bishop  to  a  good  cater 
pillar?"" 

"For  a  companion,  yes." 

With  a  despairing  sigh  he  turned  and  went  on 
with  his  drawing.  "Verily,  in  the  words  of  the 
poet: 

Bitterness  his  reward 

Who  seeketh  sense  in  maidens." 


52  Pandora's   Box 

"Who  said  that?" 

"One  of  the  minor  poets." 

"Who?" 

"How  do  you  like  it?" 

"Tell  me  who  said  it.    What  is  his  name?" 

"But  perhaps  he  never  said  it." 

"Who?" 

"Longfellow." 

"Longfellow!     Did  Longfellow  say  that?" 

"Not  to  my  knowledge.  I  merely  answered  that 
perhaps  it  was  he  who  never  said  it." 

Again  she  forgot  her  old  straw  hat,  her  ging 
ham  apron  and  the  soiled  gloves.  She  forgot  the 
gardener's  daughter.  Her  dignity  was  affronted.  In 
silence  she  walked  away.  Hastily  he  arose  and  with 
a  few  long  strides  overtook  her  and  stood  before  the 
door,  directly  in  her  path.  As  she  halted  and 
looked  coldly  up  into  the  light  gray  eyes,  whose  inde 
finable  influence  she  seemed  always  unable  to  resist — 
or  to  explain — they  smiled  pleasantly  into  her  own. 

"Don't  go  away  angry,  again.  I  am  really  sorry 
if  my  manner  was  unpleasant." 

"Then  cultivate  a  better  manner ;  and  answer  my 
question." 

"Well,  if  you  must  know.    His  name  is  Lovejoy." 

"Lovejoy?    I  do  not  recall  that  poet." 

"I  said  he  was  a  minor  poet." 
She  turned  about  and  was  returning  in  majestic 
silence   toward    the    window    when    she    suddenly 
stopped  and  faced  him. 


More  Uneducating  53 

"What  is  your  name  ?" 

"Ethan." 

"Ethan  what?" 

He  hesitated,  and  placed  a  hand  before  his  mouth 
in  the  vain  hope  of  repressing  a  smile. 

"Ethan  what?"  she  repeated. 

"Ethan  Lovejoy." 

"Then  that  gallant  witticism  is  an  inspiration  of 
your  own?" 

"I  withdraw  it,  and  I  apologize.  Maidens  are  full 
of  sense.  Too  full  of  it.  It  is  their  only  fault.  You 
must  have  misunderstood  me.  I  said,  or  should  have 
said: 

Victory  his  reward 

Who  seeketh  sense  in  maidens." 

"Too  late.  Your  offense  is  not  to  be  atoned  by 
hasty  afterthoughts."  And  she  walked  slowly  to 
the  further  end  of  the  room,  as  if  interested  in  the 
various  objects  that  hung  upon  its  walls — the  old 
portraits,  the  arms  and  armor,  the  banners,  the 
antlers  and  other  trophies  of  the  chase. 

Now  this  wise  young  man  knew  a  thing  regarding 
his  visitor  that  she  herself  did  not  suspect.  He 
knew  that  if  he  treated  her  as  a  titled  guest,  def 
erentially,  with  the  obsequious  attention  she  would 
naturally  receive  under  present  conditions,  she  might 
never  come  again.  He  knew  that  if  she  found  pleas 
ure  in  these  visits  it  would  be  chiefly  from  their 
novelty,  and  from  whatever  surprises  might  enliven 
the  routine  of  a  very  conventional  existence.  For 


54  Pandora's   Box 

he  had  not  been  slow  In  discovering  that  a  gentle 
excitement  was  more  welcome  to  this  lady  than 
even  she  herself,  perhaps,  was  ready  to  admit.  He 
had  heard,  with  the  rest  of  us,  that  kings  and  princes, 
shahs,  sultans,  and  all  creatures,  in  fact,  whose 
daily  food  was  adulation,  were  merriest  when  in 
cognito.  He  reasoned  therefrom  that  for  his  pres 
ent  visitor — she  being  absolute  queen  in  her  own 
little  kingdom — a  change  of  diet  might  be 
refreshing. 

During  her  brief  promenade  along  the  Baronial 
Hall  she  had  recovered  her  equanimity.  Pausing  be 
fore  a  portrait  she  said,  merely  as  further  proof  of 
being  the  gardener's  daughter,  and  not  easily  of 
fended  : 

"You  might  put  that  old  general  in  if  he  were  not 
so  modern.  He  has  a  warlike  head,  and  must  hare 
been  a  great  fighter,  judging  from  his  medals/' 

"They  stand  for  nothing." 

"They  stand  for  distinguished  service ;  for  battles 
and  victory." 

"Oh,  not  a  bit!  No  more  than  If  so  many  tin 
whistles  were  hung  across  his  front." 

So  deep  was  Octavia's  indignation  that  she  dared 
not  trust  herself  to  speak.  While  she  was  framing 
a  suitable  reply  the  draughtsman  came  and  stood 
beside  her,  also  in  front  of  the  red  coated  ancestor. 

"There  is  a  prevailing  idea,"  she  said  calmly, 
"that  the  Victoria  Cross  is  a  reward  for  bravery,  or 
distinguished  service." 


More   Uneducating  55 

"True.  But  that  is  only  one  of  nine.  The  others 
are  the  order  of  the  Garter,  the  Bath,  St.  Michael, 
and  St.  George,  and  similar  donations.  And  not  one 
of  them  was  ever  given  to  a  private  soldier  or  to  a 
person  of  humble  birth." 

She  made  no  reply. 

"That  is  true,  is  it  not?" 

"Possibly." 

"If,  for  instance,  people  born  on  Thursdays 
should  institute  an  order  and  distribute  medals  ex 
clusively  among  themselves,  their  medals  as  re 
wards  of  merit  would  have  the  same  significance 
as  this  old  general's  ornaments.  They  are  purely  a 
reward  for  good  luck  in  being  born  of  influential 
parents.  Nobody  is  fooled.  One  must  confess, 
however,  that  any  man  with  a  sense  of  humor  who 
can  wear  those  things  and  keep  a  sober  face,  deserves 
a  reward." 

She  moved  away  a  few  steps,  and  stood  facing 
him.  "What  is  your  mission  in  life,  Mr.  Lovejoy? 
Crushing  reverence?  Destroying  innocent  beliefs? 
Tarnishing  reputations?  Making  people  of  gentle 
birth  ridiculous?  Jeering  at  opinions  of  your — of 
your—" 

"Betters." 

"Well,  yes,— betters." 

As  she  spoke  he  looked  calmly  into  her  face,  a 
little  surprised  perhaps — and  amused — at  her  ear 
nestness. 

"Why,  no,  that  is  not  my  mission.    My  real  mis- 


56  Pandora's   Box 

sion  in  life,  as  a  caterpillar,  is  rescuing  lovely  woman 
from  the  clutches  of  Delusion.  Just  at  present, 
however,  it  seems  to  consist  in  offending  her  and 
apologizing." 

With  his  head  to  one  side  he  extended  his  hands, 
sideways,  as  if  inviting  pardon.  Being  tall  and 
rather  lank  of  figure  he  was  almost  comic  in  his 
shapeless,  wide  spreading,  ink-spattered,  linen  blouse. 
While  he  spoke,  a  bee,  loud  buzzing  and  of  huge 
proportions — for  a  bee — came  floating  in  through 
the  open  casement,  and  encircled  the  speakers.  At 
tracted  perhaps  by  the  vivid  red  of  the  old  general's 
coat,  and  by  the  ray  of  sunlight  that  fell  upon  it 
from  an  upper  window,  he  approached  as  if  to  in 
vestigate.  Then  he  reeled  away  toward  the  window, 
his  buzzing,  in  the  silent  hall,  reverberating  from 
end  to  end. 

"Even  he,"  said  the  draughtsman,  "has  a  sense  of 
humor,  and  he  is  laughing  still." 

This  appeared,  in  truth,  so  natural  an  explanation 
of  the  bee's  behavior  that  Octavia  could  not  help 
smiling.  But  with  an  air  of  disapproval  she  re 
turned  to  the  drawing  table.  The  young  man  fol 
lowed  and  went  on  with  his  work. 

Again  standing  beside  him  she  became,  as  usual, 
seriously  interested  in  the  drawing.  He  certainly 
was  clever.  She  envied  his  facility  of  hand,  his 
knowledge  of  architectural  detail,  and  his  enthusi 
asm.  She  found  a  certain  excitement  in  the  ease 


More   Uneducating  57 

and  rapidity  with  which,  on  sheets  of  tracing  paper, 
he  made  tentative  sketches  of  doors,  windows,  cor 
nices,  chimneys,  turrets  and  corner  towers.  And 
she  noticed,  incidentally,  that  his  hands,  while  long 
and  muscular,  were  surprisingly  light  of  touch. 
Again  she  murmured : 

"How  well  you  do  it !" 

"Thanks." 

Then  came  a  silence,  interrupted  by  the  draughts 
man,  who  began,  of  a  sudden,  to  whistle,  then  to 
sing — in  a  low  voice  to  be  sure,  and  out  of  tune,  but 
in  a  lively  and  enthusiastic  manner — a  triumphant 
rendering  of  the  march  in  "Aida,"  accompanied  by 
the  tapping  of  a  triangle  upon  the  drawing  board. 
Still  humming,  and  apparently  forgetful  of  his  vis 
itor,  he  climbed  upon  his  high  seat  and  stood  look 
ing  down  upon  his  work.  Stopping  in  the  middle  of 
a  note,  as  suddenly  as  he  had  begun,  he  exclaimed : 

"There!     I've  got  it  this  time!" 

Octavia  looked  up  at  the  towering  figure  in 
the  linen  blouse.  She  returned,  involuntarily,  the 
draughtsman's  smile  as  the  friendly  grey  eyes 
looked  down  into  her  own. 

"What  is  it?"  she  inquired. 

"That  window  in  the  wall  between  the  corner 
towers.  I  have  taken  out  the  little  windows  and  put 
in  that  big  one;  and  it  pulls  the  whole  thing  to 
gether.  Doesn't  it?" 

"Yes,  it  is  certainly  better:  very  much  better !" 


58  Pandora's   Box 

His  enthusiasm  was  contagious. 

Jumping  down  from  his  perch  he  exclaimed,  "Get 
up  there  yourself." 

"No/' 

"Yes,  get  up !  It  is  the  only  way  to  see  the  whole 
effect.  I  will  hold  you." 

Somewhat  to  her  own  surprise  Octavia  put  a  hand 
in  one  of  his,  then  found  herself  standing  upon  the 
high,  stool,  surveying  the  western  elevation  of  the 
restored  castle. 

"Why,  yes,  one  does  get  the  whole  effect.  It  is 
really  impressive." 

Then,  while  she  was  up  there,  he  laid  other  draw 
ings  before  her,  and  she  saw  for  the  first  time  the 
effect,  as  a  whole,  of  the  various  elevations — her 
castle  in  its  transformation.     And  she  now  realized 
more  fully  the  importance  of  the  undertaking,  this 
rebuilding  of  walls  and  towers  and  terraces.     She 
also  realized,  for  the  first  time,  that  all  these  restora 
tions,  on  such  a  scale,  implied  an  expenditure  of 
money  that  neither  her  father  nor  grandfather  could 
afford.     For,  while  the  Drumworth  revenues  were 
princely,  so  also  was  the  Drumworth  cost  of  living. 
So  also  were  the  Drumworth  debts.     And  in  the 
stately  struggle  between  the  present  Earl  and  his 
expenses  the  Earl  was  not  always  the  victor. 

When  all  the  drawings  had  been  placed  in  review 
the  visitor  remarked,  in  her  most  gracious  manner: 
"But  you  have  not  told  me  why  these  drawings 
are  being  made." 


More   Uneducating  59 

"For  some  London  architects." 

"So  you  said:  but  why  are  they  being  made?" 

With  a  slight  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  as  if  pro 
testing  ignorance,  he  answered : 

"Perhaps  for  some  historical  society — or  archi 
tectural  publication.  I  am  merely  employed,  you 
know,  by  those  architects." 

"But  why  are  these  drawings  being  made?  For 
whom,  and  for  what  purpose?  You  surely  must 
know." 

"No,  I  really  do  not." 

From  her  high  position,  looking  down  upon  the 
top  of  his  head,  she  could  not  see  his  face  as  this 
reply  was  given.  But  it  failed  to  satisfy  her. 

Again  forgetting,  for  the  moment,  her  old  straw 
hat,  her  gingham  apron  and  soiled  gloves — forget 
ting,  in  fact,  the  gardener's  daughter,  she  said, 
curtly : 

"Then  help  me  down.     I  have  seen  enough." 

He  helped  her  to  alight,  gently  and  deferentially, 
but  with  a  firm,  steadying  hand. 

"Angry  again?"  And  in  the  familiar  grey  eyes 
had  come  a  troubled  expression.  His  manner  be 
came  more  serious.  "I  would  like  to  tell  you  every 
thing,  to  keep  nothing  from  you.  This  making  a 
mystery  of  it  is  detestable,  but  really,  I  am  bound 
to  secrecy." 

"Then  whoever  employs  these  architects  is  con 
cealing  the  purpose  of  the  restorations?" 

"Just  for  the  present,  yes." 


60  Pandora's   Box 

"How  soon  is  this  awful  secret  to  be  divulged?" 

"I  really  don't  know." 

"Do  the  owners  of  the  castle  know  about  it?" 

"I  think  so.  They  know  that  I  am  making  the 
drawings." 

"And  you  know  all  about  it  yourself?" 

Reluctantly  he  nodded  assent.  "But  I  do  not 
know  who  is  employing  the  architects." 

"And  you,  you  say,  have  promised  not  to  divulge 
the  plot?" 

"Yes,  but  please  do  not  blame  me  for  that.  And 
don't  call  it  a  plot.  Secrecy  is  often  required  in 
building  projects  and  for  perfectly  honorable  rea 
sons.  I  would  gladly  tell  you  whatever  I  know,  but 
you  surely  understand  my  position." 

She  made  no  reply. 

"Don't  you?" 

"I  suppose  so."  But  she  spoke  with  no  sympathy. 
Disturbing  suspicions  were  crowding  into  her  brain. 
She  was  moving  slowly  away  when  she  stopped, 
and  turned  partly  toward  him. 

"Are  the  reasons  in  this  case  perfectly  honor 
able?" 

"Perfectly  honorable,  yes." 

"But  somebody  might  be  ashamed,  perhaps,  if 
the  real  purpose  were  known?" 

"No,  he  would  not  be  ashamed.  He  merely  pre 
fers  that  it  be  not  made  public." 

"Who?" 

At  this  he  smiled.  "On  my  honor,  I  do  not  know. 


More   Uneducating  6l 

But,  really,  Miss  Gardener,  one  has  to  keep  his  wits 
about  him  when  you  are  in  earnest." 

Thus  recalled  to  herself — or  rather  to  the  person 
she  was  representing — she  smiled,  but  with  an  effort. 

"Well,  perhaps  it  is  none  of  my  affair.  But  I 
know  the  castle  so  well,  and  am  so  fond  of  it,  that 
you  must  pardon  my  curiosity." 

"Pardon  it !  I  should  not  blame  you  for  having  all 
sorts  of  suspicions — of  myself  included." 

"No,  hardly  that.  But  do  you  prefer  that  I  shall 
not  divulge  this  awful  secret?  That  I  shall  not 
speak  of  having  seen  these  drawings?" 

"I  should  be  very  grateful  if  you  would  so  be 
have." 

"Very  well,  I  will  so  behave." 

"Thank  you." 

"Good  morning." 

"Good  morning." 

And  she  departed. 


VI 


A  DOG  AND  A  TALE 

ENTERING  her  own  garden  Octavia  sat  upon 
a  bench  and  did  some  thinking.     It  was  a 
pleasant  spot,  this  flower  garden  in  the  June 
sunshine,  with  a  fragrance  of  old  box  in  the  air. 
But  full  enjoyment  of  this  environment  was  marred 
by    certain   questions    which   persistently   intruded 
themselves. 

Why  should  her  father  make  a  secret  of  this  arch 
itect  and  his  work?  And  who  of  her  family  so  rich 
as  to  undertake  these  prodigal  restorations?  If  un 
dertaken  by  some  society  or  institution,  why  any 
secrecy?  And,  above  all,  why  should  her  father 
conceal  from  his  own  daughter,  from  the  sole  heir 
of  the  castle  itself,  such  a  supremely  important — 
almost  public — undertaking?  These  unanswered 
questions  simply  deepened  the  mystery.  But  they 
strengthened  her  resolve  to  learn  the  truth.  Her 
first  thought  was  to  question  Auntie  George.  But 
were  Auntie  George  not  bound  to  secrecy  she  would 
already  have  imparted  the  desired  knowledge.  Per 
haps  she,  too,  was  in  ignorance.  For  a  brief  moment 
Octavia  entertained  the  idea — or  tried  to — that  per- 

62 


A   Dog  and   a  Tale  63 

haps  her  father  was  doing  it  as  a  surprise  to  his 
daughter.  But  this  idea,  unfortunately,  was  too 
good  to  last — a  dream  too  beautiful  to  bear  the  light 
of  day — too  cruelly  out  of  harmony  with  her 
father's  financial  condition.  For,  while  having  no 
precise  knowledge  of  the  business  matters  of  her 
family,  she  knew  certain  things.  She  knew  of  the 
reckless  expenditures  of  her  grandfather,  the  pres 
ent  Earl.  And  her  father,  Lord  Aylesden,  good  in- 
tentioned  but  also  with  a  mind  on  pleasure  bent,  had 
not  proved  successful  as  a  redeemer  of  shrunken 
fortunes.  But  there  was  one  question  more  disturb 
ing  than  all  the  others,  and  it  recurred  more  persist 
ently.  What  was,  what  could  be,  the  reason  for  this 
secrecy  ? 

That  day,  however,  brought  no  chance  for  en 
lightenment.  Being  an  educated  person,  Octavia. 
realized  the  importance  of  architecture  as  a  fine  art. 
She  remembered  that  noble  families  had  encouraged 
its  disciples.  Therefore,  on  the  following  morning, 
in  the  gingham  apron  and  old  straw  hat,  she  again 
wended  her  way  toward  the  Baronial  Hall. 

The  architect,  when  she  arrived,  was  standing  on 
the  stool  looking  down  at  his  work,  unaware  of  her 
presence.  But  he  had  a  companion  this  morning, 
and  as  this  companion  advanced  to  greet  Octavia  she 
uttered  an  exclamation.  It  was  not  a  cry  of  joy  or 
admiration.  That  Ethan  Lovejoy  should  have  a 
dog — even  a  mongrel  bulldog — did  not  surprise 
her;  but  she  was  surprised  that  a  person  of  any  kind, 


64  Pandora's    Box 

architect  or  otherwise,  should  select  for  companion 
ship  a  creature  so  triumphantly  vulgar  as  this  pres 
ent  animal. 

The  beast  came  toward  her  with  wagging  tail 
and  other  manifestations  of  cordiality.  Her  in 
voluntary  exclamation  caused  Love  joy  to  look  be 
hind  him.  Then  he  turned  about  and  jumped  down 
from  his  elevation.  s 

f  "Good  morning.    Don't  mind  him.    He  isn't  half 
so  bad  as  he  looks." 

Moving  around  the  dog  in  a  semicircle,  to  avoid 
;any  possible  contact,  Octavia  stood  before  the  draw 
ings. 

"Is  that  what  you  call  a  section?" 

"Yes.     It  shows  the  interior  along  a  given  line." 

"What  is  that  hole  that  looks  like  an  open  cellar 
just  outside  there?" 

"The  old  moat.  It  is  there  now,  but  all  filled  up 
and  overgrown  with  bushes.  If  cleaned  out  it  would 
look  as  it  does  here." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  would.  And  you  have  re 
stored  the  drawbridge." 

He  then  explained  certain  things  about  the  draw 
bridge.  After  further  questions  had  been  answered, 
Octavia  moved  away  and  took  her  usual  seat  in  the 
great  window. 

Then  after  a  brief  silence,   broken  by  a  long- 
drawn  sigh  from  Octavia,  the  draughtsman  looked 
up.    "I  hope  you  are  not  tired  of  life  this  morning." 
"I  am." 


"BUT    HE    HAD   A    COMPANION    THIS    MORNING—' 


A  Dog  and  a  Tale  65 

"What!     Already?" 

"My  age  is  not  measured  by  years." 

"Gracious !  Why,  you  must  be  the  oldest  woman 
in  the  world!" 

"No.  There  may  be  older  ones.  But  after  twenty 
years  of  life  one  has  seen  it  all." 

The  draughtsman  studied  her  face  to  see  if  a  joke 
were  intended.  But  the  face  was  more  than  serious ; 
it  was  sad.  She  continued,  wearily :  "There  are  no 
surprises ;  nothing  new.  We  do  the  same  old  things. 
We  think  the  same  old  thoughts.  And  as  for  people, 
they  are  more  and  more  alike  as  they  get  older; 
duller,  flatter,  more  selfish;  and  more  deadly  tire 


some." 


These  words  were  uttered  in  a  tone  of  mingled 
annoyance  and  despair. 

The  draughtsman  raised  his  eyebrows,  whistled, 
then  went  on  with  his  work.  "If  this  is  your  condi 
tion  at  twenty  what  an  inspiriting  old  thing  you 
will  be  at  fifty.  Your  husband  will  seek  the  refrig 
erator  for  warmth." 

"There  will  be  no  husband." 

"You  mean  he  will  have  run  away?" 

She  smiled.     "Very  likely." 

"Small  blame  to  him!" 

"What  I  mean  is  that  I  shall  never  marry." 

"Ah!  so  soon?  Of  course  you  know  when  a  girl 
makes  that  remark  she  has  selected  the  man." 

With  decision  she  repeated,  "I  shall  never  marry." 

Ethan  Love  joy  looked  down  at  the  dog      "Old 


66  Pandora's  Box 

man,  did  you  ever  hear  such  twaddle?"  Then,  after 
rubbing  out  a  line  and  redrawing  it,  "You  may  not 
suspect  it,  but  the  man  who  marries  you  will  be  the 
bravest  thing  yet." 

"Indeed!" 

"I  am  sorry  to  break  your  heart,  but  personally, 
I  would  as  soon  think  of  offering  myself  to — to — 
the  Parthenon." 

"Am  I  so  passee  as  that?" 

"Not  passee,  although  you  may  feel  the  same 
age ;  but  because  you  are  both  so  everlastingly  supe 
rior;  so  much  better  and  more  altitudinous  than 
anything  in  your  own  neighborhoods." 

Octavia  frowned,  then  smiled,  opened  her  lips  to 
say  something  but  changed  her  mind.  Instead,  she 
studied  the  dog,  who  had  followed  her  to  the  win 
dow.  He  was  now  sitting  upon  the  floor  in  front 
of  her  looking  up  into  her  face  in  silent  admiration. 
Octavia  returned  this  look  with  one  of  freezing  con 
tempt.  Had  the  dog  been  familiar  with  his  own 
appearance  he  would  have  expected  nothing  else. 
Grace  and  beauty  did  not  abide  with  him.  His  gen 
eral  dimensions  were  those  of  a  large  fox  terrier, 
but  he  was  heavily  built,  and  had  thicker  legs.  With 
the  exception  of  a  dark  brown  patch  over  the  left 
eye  and  another  one  about  the  size  of  your  hand  in 
the  middle  of  his  back,  he  was  white.  That  is,  the 
prevailing  tint  may  have  been  white  in  his  early 
youth,  but  a  prolonged  intimacy  with  back  alleys, 
gutters  and  all  kinds  of  weather  had  resulted  in  a 


A   Dog  and   a  Tale  67 

brownish,  miscellaneous  color  that  no  single  word 
could  express.  The  black  patch  over  the  left  eye 
gave  him  a  devil-may-care  look  that  caused  par 
donable  misgivings  as  to  his  moral  character.  The 
general  impression  was  not  of  a  conservative,  law- 
abiding  dog.  This  unfavorable  impression  was  en 
hanced  by  one  or  two  ancient  but  still  visible  scars 
upon  his  person. 

Ethan  Love  joy,  looking  up  from  his  drawing, 
observed  the  open  adoration  of  the  animal  and  the 
visitors  failure  to  respond.  Going  on  with  his  work 
he  remarked : 

"You  seem  to  have  made  another  conquest." 

Octavia  frowned.  "He  is  simply  hideous.  Haven't 
I  seen  him  about  the  village?" 

"Very  likely.  He  was  there  when  I  came,  a  week 
ago.  I  bought  him  yesterday." 

"Who  owned  him?" 

"Nobody." 

"Nobody  would — if  they  could  help  it.  But  if 
nobody  owned  him  how  could  you  buy  him?" 

"I  bought  him  of  himself.  Three  chops  was  the 
price.  And  he  has  stuck  to  me  like  a  brother  ever 
since." 

After  regarding  him  in  silence  for  a  moment 
Octavia  murmured,  "Poor  thing!  How  unneces 
sarily  ugly  he  is!" 

"Well,  yes,"  said  Ethan.  "But  then,  you  know,  it 
is  not  always  fair  to  judge  by  appearances.  He  may 
have  the  heart  of  a  poet." 


68  Pandora's  Box 

"More  likely  of  a  burglar,  or  a  highwayman. 
What  sort  of  dog  do  you  call  him?" 

"I  had  not  presumed  to  call  him  anything,  yet. 
I  should  think  his  father  might  be  a  fox  terrier, 
his  mother  a  bulldog,  and  his  remoter  ancestors  al 
most  anything.  If  he  has  uncles  and  aunts  who  are 
pugs,  great  danes,  or  even  short-eared  rabbits,  I 
should  not  be  surprised." 

For  a  moment  or  two  Octavia  studied  this  new 
comer,  looking  down  into  his  adoring  eyes  with 
a  disdainful  indifference  that  would  have  chilled  the 
heart  of  one  of  her  own  species.  "You  surely  are 
not  going  to  keep  him." 

"I  am  afraid  I  am.  You  see,  I  made  the  first  ad 
vances,  so  I  am  bound  in  honor,  as  it  were.  The 
village  of  Drumworth  has  never  appreciated  him. 
And  he  is  so  very  happy  at  finding  a  fellow  who  ap 
pears  to  like  him,  even  a  little  bit,  that  I — well,  I 
really  haven't  the  heart  to  drive  him  off.  Are  you 
sure  you  don't  want  him?  He  likes  you.  Any 
body  can  see  that." 

The  only  reply  to  this  was  a  slight  curl  of  the 
lip  as  she  turned  her  head  toward  the  window. 

"If  a  dog  loves  you,"  said  Lovejoy,  "and  he 
always  loves  somebody — he  asks  nothing  but  the 
pleasure  of  your  company.  He  demands  no  sacri 
fice,  but  is  glad  to  risk  his  own  life  to  save  yours." 

The  truth  of  this  Octavia  conceded  by  a  move 
ment  of  the  head,  and  glanced  down  at  the  dog. 
But,  with  a  sigh,  she  again  looked  out  the  window. 


A  Dog  and  a  Tale  69 

Her  attempts  at  admiration  were  failures.  Verily 
this  dog,  in  the  perfection  of  his  ugliness,  surpassed 
all  other  dogs! 

"I  must  think  of  a  good  name  for  him,"  said 
Ethan  Love  joy. 

"What  is  his  present  name  ?" 

"He  is  only  known  in  the  village  as  Jim  Pollack's 


"That  horrid  Jim  Pollack!"  exclaimed  Octavia. 
"He  went  to  prison  last  winter  for  killing  his  wife." 
And  she  regarded  her  four  legged  admirer  with  in 
creasing  horror.  This  new  horror,  however,  caused 
a  gleam  of  compassion.  "I  suppose  the  bad  name 
of  his  master  has  clung  to  the  poor  brute  and  made 
him  an  outcast." 

"Probably.  He  certainly  is  an  outcast  —  among 
humans.  But  I  have  noticed  he  has  friends  among 
dogs.  Dogs  are  far  less  critical  than  humans  :  also 
broader  minded." 

"I  believe  they  are." 

"Of  course  they  are  :  more  honest,  more  forgiving 
and  devoted.  There  is  an  awful  chasm,  morally, 
between  men  and  dogs.  Imagine  this  dog  —  or  any 
other  dog  —  killing  his  wife!  By  the  way,"  and  he 
got  up  and  went  to  his  coat  at  the  further  end  of  the 
long  table,  and  took  a  paper  from  a  pocket,  "did  you 
ever  see  this?" 

But,  as  Octavia  extended  a  hand  to  take  the  paper 
he  scowled,  and  withdrew  it.  "Tell  me  first,  are  you 
fond  of  dogs?  Otherwise  it  would  be  wasted  on 
you." 


7°  Pandora's   Box 

She  smiled.     "Indeed  I  am !" 

Then  he  gave  it  to  her.  And  while  she  was  read 
ing  it  he  strolled  slowly  across  the  hall,  and  back 
again. 

This  was  the  verse : 

MY  DOG 

The  curate  thinks  you  have  no  soul; 

I  know  that  he  has  none.    But  you, 
Dear  friend,  whose  solemn  self-control 

In  our  four-square,  familiar  pew, 

Was  pattern  to  my  youth — whose  bark 
Called  me  in  summer  dawns  to  rove — 

Have  you  gone  down  into  the  dark 
Where  none  is  welcome,  none  may  love? 

I  will  not  think  those  good  brown  eyes 
Have  spent  their  light  of  truth  so  soon, 

But  in  some  canine  Paradise 
Your  wraith,  I  know,  rebukes  the  moon, 

And  quarters  every  plain  and  hill, 

Seeking  its  master.    *    *    *    As  for  me, 

This  prayer  at  least  the  gods  fulfil : 
That  when  I  pass  the  flood,  and  see 

Old  Charon  by  the  Stygian  coast 
Take  toll  of  all  the  shades  who  land, 

Your  little,  faithful  barking  ghost 
May  leap  to  lick  my  phantom  hand. 

"Perfect!"  she  murmured.  "And  I  believe  the 
dog  will  be  there.  Who  wrote  it  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  found  it  in  a  magazine.  I  am 
sorry  dogs  cannot  read  it."  He  replaced  it  in  the 
coat  pocket  and  returned  to  his  drawing.  "But 


A   Dog  and   a  Tale  7* 

what  shall  I  call  this  chap?  Can't  you  suggest  a 
good  name  —  something  appropriate,  and  rather 
pretty?" 

"Pretty !  Why  not  call  him  y£sop  ?  He  was  the 
plainest  man  in  history." 

"^sop?  Well,  y£sop  was  honest  so  far  as  we 
know ;  but  it  doesn't  abbreviate  well.  People  might 
call  him  'Soppy.'  And  'Soppy'  doesn't  fit  this  per 
son.  His  name  should  be  more  suggestive  of 
beauty,  or  gentle  blood.  What  do  you  say  to  Prince, 
or  Narcissus?" 

A  faint  but  derisive  smile  curled  Octavia's  lip  as 
she  murmured,  "Gentle  blood!  He  is  the  living 
emblem  of  all  that  is  ugly  and  baseborn." 

The  architect  straightened  up  and  wheeled  about 
on  his  stool.  "Baseborn!  Why  not?  Just  the 
name  for  him.  Let's  call  him  Baseborn." 

"You  pretended  to  be  his  friend,  yet  you  give  him 
a  ridiculous  name." 

"Ridiculous?  Baseborn  ridiculous?  Oh,  you 
don't  mean  that!  It  merely  puts  him  in  the  same 
class,  socially,  with  some  excellent  people ;  Matthew, 
Mark,  Luke  and  John,  for  instance.  What  a  terrible 
snob  you  must  be,  way  down  in  your  horticultural 
heart!" 

Octavia  flushed,  and  in  her  reply  was  a  note  of 
anger.  "I  am  not  a  snob.  Call  him  Baseborn  if 
you  like.  No  earthly  name  can  be  more  absurd 
than  the  dog  himself." 

The  architect  whistled,  gently;  then,  without  look- 


72  Pandora's   Box 

ing  up,   "When  I  spoke  of  your  being  a  snob  I 
meant  it  in  a  complimentary  sense." 

"Then  your  language  was  unfortunate." 

"Well — I  don't  know.  The  moon,  for  instance, 
the  distant,  haughty,  celestial  moon  to  whom  dogs 
bark  in  vain  and  whom  we  all  love  and  respect  is 
an  offish  thing,  and  might  be  called  a  snob." 

"You  implied  a  contempt  on  my  part  for  the 
twelve  apostles." 

"Well,  now,  be  honest.  Imagine  Matthew,  Mark, 
Luke  and  John  in  modern  garb  entering  the  Drum- 
worth  pew — you  have  seen  it  probably,  the  great 
square  pew  just  in  front  of  the  pulpit,  with  the 
coat  of  arms  carved  on  it?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

He  repeated,  "You  have  seen  it?" 

"Yes." 

"If  instead  of  being  a  gardener's  daughter  you 
were  the  Lady  of  Drumworth  would  you  not  con 
sider  it  an  impertinence  if  those  four  persons  were 
shown  into  your  pew  ?" 

"I  should  not." 

"Remember,  they  were  workingmen,  and  social 
ists." 

"It  would  make  no  difference." 

"Excuse  me,  but  I  don't  believe  you.  You  have 
a  very  scornful  nose  for  a  horticultural  person  and 
at  times  a  rather  snifty  expression  about  the  mouth. 
I  am  pop  sure  you  could  be  quite  nasty  to  those 
apostles." 


A   Dog  and   a  Tale  73 

Octavia  remained  silent.  She  was  wondering  if 
there  was  truth  in  this  remark  about  her  mouth.  The 
possibility  troubled  her.  Among  her  acquaintances 
were  several  persons  with  "snifty"  mouths  or  man 
ners  ;  and  it  was  a  thing  that  offended  her.  Now,  to 
suspect  that  this  man,  in  friendly,  playful  innocence 
had  given  her  the  truth  was  distressful  and  morti 
fying. 

With  eyes  still  upon  his  work  the  architect  went 
on,  in  a  reflective  tone:  "Curious,  isn't  it,  how 
people  take  the  greatest  pride  in  the  wrong  things? 
They  never  become  arrogant  or  supercilious  because 
they  are  modest,  kind-hearted  or  unselfish.  But  if 
they  happen  to  inherit  good  luck  they  can  be  quite 
unpleasant.  In  fact  they  are  pretty  sure  to  develop 
foolish  traits." 

Octavia  turned  toward  him  and  in  a  low  voice 
but  with  some  earnestness  said,  "I  never  thought  of 
that  before.  It  is  really  quite  true,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Nothing  truer.  The  dog  that  saves  a  child  is 
never  so  well  pleased  with  himself  as  the  peacock 
who  inherits  feathers." 

Octavia  nodded  approval.  "Yes,  it  is  perfectly 
true — perfectly  true."  Extending  a  foot  until  the 
toe  of  her  shoe  was  beneath  Baseborn's  chin  she 
gently  raised  his  head.  As  his  eyes,  always  adoring, 
gazed  up  into  her  own,  she  inquired,  "Would  you 
save  a  person,  Baseborn,  at  the  risk  of  your  life?" 

Baseborn's  real  answer  comes  later  in  this  his 
tory.  At  present  he  merely  wagged  his  tail. 


74  Pandora's    Box 

The  architect  went  on  with  his  work. 

Baseborn,  who  had  shown  little  interest  in  his 
own  christening,  continued  to  regard  the  lady  with 
upturned  face  and  enchanted  eyes.  Occasionally 
he  turned  a  brief  glance  toward  the  architect.  But 
these  glances  were  merely  from  a  passing  curiosity 
as  to  his  benefactor's  movements. 

Nothing  was  heard  in  the  old  hall  for  a  few 
moments,  except  the  hummings  of  operatic  airs  and 
the  suppressed  whistling  of  an  enthusiast,  absorbed 
— apparently — in  his  drawing. 

Octavia,  with  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  gazed 
dreamily  through  the  open  casement,  over  the  quiet 
sunlit  garden.  Through  this  open  window  came 
floating  in,  with  the  soft  June  air,  the  odor  of  box 
and  roses.  It  was  a  soothing  atmosphere,  inviting 
to  repose  and  meditation. 

At  last  the  worker  straightened  up.  Then  he 
turned  upon  his  seat  and  faced  the  lady  at  the  win 
dow.  Tapping  his  chin  with  his  pencil,  he  said : 

"Speaking  of  ghosts,  do  you — " 

"We  have  not  spoken  of  ghosts." 

"I  should  say  'speaking  of  ghosts  for  the  first 
time,'  do  you  happen  to  know  why  there  are  so  many 
more  of  them  in  castles  than  in  cottages?" 

"Because  artistic  harmonies  require  a  castle.  A 
ghost  needs  shadowy  places  to  emerge  from,  and 
vanish  into.  He  would  not  appear  to  advantage 
in  a  little  cottage." 


A   Dog  and   a  Tale  75 

"No,  that  is  not  the  real  reason.  But  I  will  tell 
you  if  you  want  to  hear  it." 

"Is  it  very  silly?" 

"Reasonably  silly.    But  enlightening." 

"Then  you  may  begin." 

"It  is  a  long  story." 

"Never  mind." 

He  laid  down  his  pencil,  came  over  to  the  win 
dow  and  sat  on  the  opposite  seat.  As  he  crossed 
one  leg  over  the  other  Baseborn  placed  himself  in 
contact  with  the  foot  that  remained  upon  the  floor — 
as  dogs  do — and  remained  in  this  position,  never 
moving  his  eyes  from  Octavia' s  face.  And  the 
look  was  of  adoration — whole  souled  and  self  for 
getting. 

Octavia,  in  turn,  as  she  met  this  enraptured  gaze, 
felt  a  deeper  sympathy  for  Baseborn's  extraordi 
nary  ugliness.  His  battered  features,  his  disrepu 
table  patch  over  one  eye,  his  square,  pugnacious  head 
and  parti-colored  face,  all  formed,  to  her,  a  com 
bination  painfully  repulsive.  It  seemed  needlessly 
cruel  that  any  one  creature  should,  through  no  fault 
of  his  own,  be  so  forbidding  of  aspect,  so  odiously 
vulgar. 

But  Baseborn,  if  he  suspected  this  antipathy,  had 
no  resentment.  And  oh,  how  different  his  opinion 
of  herself! 

Octavia,  after  enduring  for  a  moment  the  sight 
of  Baseborn's  countenance,  closed  her  eyes,  and 
sighed. 


76  Pandora's   Box 

"As  I  have  just  been  reading  the  Arabian  Nights," 
said  Ethan  Love  joy,  "we  will  play  that  you  are  the 
Khali f's  daughter,  and  that  Baseborn  is  a  beautiful 
princess." 

With  an  involuntary  glance  at  the  dog,  Octavia 
laughed.  "No!  My  imagination  fails!" 

Baseborn,  however,   kept  a  serious   face. 

"And  I,"  said  the  draughtsman,  "as  Lovebad  the 
sailor — or  Sinjoy  the  barber — will  now  narrate  the 
tale  of 

Why  There  Are  More  Ghosts  in  Castles 
Than  in  Cottages 

One  morning,  in  answer  to  a  commanding  knock, 
St.  Peter  threw  open  the  golden  gate.  Before  him 
stood  a  lady  of  ancient  lineage. 

"This  is  heaven?" 

"Yes,  madam." 

"You  are  St.  Peter?" 

He  bowed.    "At  your  service." 

Then  she  gave  her  own  name  and  title.  Again 
he  bowed. 

Then  she  gave  the  titles  of  her  father,  her  hus 
band  and  of  some  remote  ancestors. 

St.  Peter  bowed  again. 

"These  names,"  she  said,  "are  perhaps  familiar 
to  you." 

Regretfully  he  shook  his  head.  "We  hear  so 
many  names  it  is  impossible  to  remember  them  all." 

"No  one  would  ask  you  to  remember  them  all.    I 


A   Dog  and   a   Tale  77 

should  suppose,  however,  that  certain  names,  having 
stood  for  generations  high  above  the  common  herd, 
might  fix  themselves  upon  the  dullest  memory." 

"You  must  pardon  my  forgetfulness,  but  names 
up  here  shine  not  from  hereditary  honors,  but  from 
individual  merit.  This  is  a  pure  democracy." 

The  lady  frowned,  and  raised  her  chin.  "What 
did  you  say?" 

The  Keeper  of  the  Gate  repeated  his  remark. 

She  seemed  incredulous.  "Is  it  possible?  Are 
you  telling  me  the  truth?" 

"Yes,  madam." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  in  heaven  there  are  no 
social  distinctions,  no  upper  classes?" 

"No,  madam." 

"Outrageous !" 

"Let  us  understand  each  other,  dear  friend.     It 

"Do  not  call  me  dear  friend,  if  you  please.  I 
am  not  here  to  be  patronized — by  a  fisherman." 

"As  you  prefer,  madam.  I  was  merely  going 
to  ask  if  you  anticipated  an  aristocracy  with  such 
social  conditions  as  flourish  upon  the  earth  you  have 
just  quitted?" 

"I  did." 

St.  Peter  raised  his  eyebrows  and  stroked  his 
beard.  "You  hoped  to  find  here  a  class  that  takes 
the  best  of  everything  as  a  natural  right?" 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  mean." 


7$  Pandora's   Box 

"You  must  prepare  for  disappointment.  We  have 
no  such  class." 

"How  unjust!"  And  the  lady  bit  her  lips  in  an 
effort  to  repress  her  indignation. 

St.  Peter  appeared  surprised.  "Unjust?  The 
absence  of  such  privileges  unjust?" 

"Of  course  it's  unjust.  Grossly  unjust,  uncivil 
ized,  barbaric — and  dishonorable!" 

"Oh,  my  dear  madam !    Not  dishonorable !" 

"It's  unjust  anyway." 

"Unjust  to  whom?" 

"To  us  who  are  accustomed  to  it — and  expect  it." 

"Your  point  of  view  is  interesting.  But  console 
yourself,  madam,  with  this  knowledge,  that  if  you 
had  been  consigned  to  that  Other  Place  instead  of 
here  you  would  have  found  class  distinctions  of  the 
most  aggravated  form." 

"I  should  much  prefer  it." 

"I  hardly  think  so.  Those  who  were  at  the  top 
while  on  earth  are  the  humblest  workers  in  the 
lower  regions.  Moreover,  a  humiliating  and  most 
obsequious  deference  to  their  betters  is  perpetually 
exacted." 

"And  who  are  their  betters?" 

"The  meanest  and  most  vindictive  spirits  from 
among  those  you  patronized  on  earth." 

The  lady,  with  a  look  of  horror,  gasped,  and  took 
a  backward  step. 

"Awful !    Awful !    Incredible !" 

"There  is  a   German  princess,    for  instance,   a 


A   Dog  and  a  Tale  79 

haughty  person,  who  took  her  ancestry  very  serious 
ly.  Some  people  do,  you  know." 

"Which  is  perfectly  right  and  proper." 

"So  she  thought.  For  the  last  eight  months  she 
has  been  in  Purgatory  as  scullery  maid  to  a  cook 
she  once  discharged  for  impertinence." 

"Abominable !"  exclaimed  the  lady  of  ancient  lin 
eage.  "Shameful!  Perfectly  outrageous!" 

"But  you  must  remember,  madam,  that  a  great 
variety  of  similar  conditions  is  what  constitutes 
hell." 

Then  with  a  frown,  but  speaking  in  a  regretful 
tone,  he  added,  "Pride,  you  know,  is  severely  pun 
ished." 

The  lady  grew  pale.  "But  what  am  I  to  do?  I 
really  could  never  be  happy  here  on  equal  terms  with 
everybody." 

"There  is  a  third  course.  You  can  return  to 
earth  and  still  inhabit  your  ancestral  mansions." 

"Return  to  life?  Oh,  by  all  means !  That  is  per 
fectly  satisfactory." 

"Excuse  me.  Not  return  to  life  exactly,  but  as  a 
disembodied  spirit." 

"A  ghost?"    And  the  lady  shuddered. 

St.  Peter  nodded. 

The  lady  closed  her  eyes,  and  reflected.  "If  I 
choose  that  course  must  I  remain  a  ghost  forever?" 

"The  usual  term  is  a  year." 

"Then,  if  I  preferred,  I  could  enter  here?" 

"Yes." 


8°  Pandora's   Box 

"And  if  I  did  not  prefer  it  I  should  still  remain 
a  ghost?" 

"You  would  not  prefer  it." 

"I  might/' 

"Such  a  thing  has  never  happened." 

"What!    Not  once?" 

"Not  once  during  the  twenty  centuries  this  heav 
en  has  been  established." 

"This  heaven !    Then  there  are  other  heavens  ?" 

"Oh,  yes!  Ours  is  comparatively  new.  There 
are  the  heavens  of  Buddha,  of  Mohammed,  and  sev 
eral  other  Oriental  places:  also  the  seven  heavens 
of  Swedenborg,  to  say  nothing  of  the  happy  hunt 
ing  grounds  of  the  North  American  Indian,  and  of 
sundry  deserving  heathen." 

The  lady's  face  brightened.  "But  I  might  pre 
fer  one  of  those.  Buddha's,  for  instance — a  para 
dise  of  Caste!" 

"No  Christians  are  admitted." 

The  lady  bowed  her  head,  and  closed  her  eyes. 
She  felt  like  weeping.  Pride,  however — and  pride 
was  her  ruling  attribute— sustained  her.  When  she 
raised  her  head  she  looked  St.  Peter  calmly  in  the 
eyes.  "I  will  go  back  to  earth  for  a  year." 

Which  she  did.  And  this  tale  accounts  for  so 
many  ghosts  in  castles  and  so  few  in  the  dwellings 
of  the  poor. 

When  the  tale  ended  there  was  a  silence.  Octavia, 
after  a  suspicious  glance  at  the  speaker,  looked  out 


A  Dog  and  a  Tale  8l 

the  window  with  an  expression  which  may  have 
meant  weariness,  or  disapproval. 

"I  am  afraid  you  don't  like  it,"  he  said. 

"I  consider  it  sacrilegious — and  impertinent." 

"Why  impertinent?" 

Then  Octavia  remembered  that  she  was  a  garden 
er's  daughter,  and  inquired,  carelessly,  "What  is 
the  moral?" 

"The  moral?  Oh,  well,  if  there  must  be  a  moral 
I  suppose  it  is,  that — er — pride  is  dangerous  bag 
gage.  When  you  and  I  are  resting  quietly  in  our 
graves,  or  sporting  in  celestial  fields,  the  shivering 
shades  of  Lady  Georgiana — or  even  Lady  Octavia 
— may  be  gliding  at  stroke  of  midnight  through  the 
corridors  of  Drum  worth  Castle." 


VII 


A  WOMAN'S  FACE 


A  SILLY  tale,"  said  Octavia,  "with  a  foolish 
moral." 

"A  foolish  moral!  Marry!  Just  listen  to 
that!"  and  he  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven  and  slowly 
shook  his  head. 

"Have  you  never  heard,"  she  inquired  gently, 
"that  you  cannot  make  a  silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's 
ear?" 

He  nodded,  and  smiled.  "Nor  a  camel's  hair 
shawl  out  of  a  king's  whiskers." 

After  a  pause  he  added,  "I  suppose  Voltaire  was 
right  when  he  said  England  is  like  a  hogshead  of 
its  own  beer;  the  top  is  froth,  the  bottom  dregs,  the 
middle  excellent." 

Octavia  frowned.  She  felt  a  rising  anger.  All 
her  self-control  was  needed  to  suppress  a  hot  reply 
to  this  amazing  insolence.  But  her  swift,  involun 
tary  glance  at  his  face  met  an  expression  of  serenity 
and  cheerful  innocence.  Without  noticing  her  own 
expression  he  went  on,  in  a  reflective  tone:  "But 
if  we  selected  our  own  ancestors  as  carefully  as  we 
do  those  of  our  horses  we  might  have  an  aristocracy 

82 


A   Woman's  Face  83 

that  stood  for  something.  If,  for  instance,  Ben 
Franklin  had  married  Sapho,  you  would  expect  in 
teresting  descendants." 

As  this  was  too  silly  for  serious  consideration 
Octavia  merely  closed  her  eyes  and,  leaning  back, 
rested  her  head  against  the  old  wainscoting  of  the 
window. 

"But  when  Lord  Drinkmore  marries  Lady 
Featherbrain  the  results  are — well,  they  are — what 
we  see  about  us." 

Octavia  made  no  answer.  But  on  her  face,  as  she 
opened  her  eyes  and  regarded  the  draughtsman, 
there  was  a  look  of  displeasure  and  suspicion. 

"But  we  cannot  blame  the  Drinkmores  and 
Featherbrains,"  he  continued,  "for  they  would  be 
traitors  to  their  class  if  they  married  beneath  them. 
Drinkmore's  family  would  surely  have  discouraged 
his  attentions  to  Sapho.  And  just  imagine  how 
Lady  Featherbrain's  social  position  would  have  suf 
fered  if  she  married  Ben  Franklin.  He  was  of  com 
mon  origin,  as  of  course  you  know." 

"Very  amusing." 

He  smiled — a  smile  of  encouragement,  as  from 
an  adult  to  a  child.  "I  am  glad  you  find  it  amus 
ing.  When  you  find  wisdom  amusing  you  have 
opened  the  door  to  knowledge." 

Octavia  concealed  her  annoyance  by  turning  her 
face  toward  the  garden.  She  remembered  that 
these  remarks  were  being  addressed  to  a  gardener's 
daughter,  and  she  tried  to  behave  accordingly.  It 


84  Pandora's    Box 

required,  however,  considerable  forbearance  to  re 
main  silent  in  the  face  of  such  patronizing  imperti 
nence.  But  the  architect  went  on  quietly  with  his 
drawing.  After  a  moment  he  added,  in  a  serious 
tone: 

"Perhaps  we  could  do  better  than  marry  Frank 
lin  to  Sapho.  What  do  you  think?" 

There  was  no  reply. 

"It  might  be  a  better  match  for  the  purpose  if 
Solomon  married  George  Eliot." 

Indifferently,  after  a  contemptuous  pause,  the 
lady  inquired:  "Was  George  Eliot  so  very  wise?" 

"No,  not  wise :  but  intellectual.  There's  an  awful 
gulf,  you  know,  between  wisdom  and  learning." 

"For  my  own  personal  companions,"  said  Octavia, 
"I  should  prefer  the  more  simple  children  of  Drink- 
more." 

"Probably:  if  you  are  not  easily  bored." 

"But  I  am  easily  bored."  And  she  spoke  emphati 
cally,  ending  with  a  sigh. 

"Then  you  would  be  bored  stiff  by  his  average 
lordship.  For  when  his  average  lordship  weds  the 
corresponding  female  and  keeps  it  up  for  genera 
tions  the  descendants  are — well,  they  are  not  ex 
hilarating." 

Now,  as  it  happened,  Octavia  was  often  wearied 
by  the  conversation  of  her  male  acquaintance.  And 
her  acquaintance  consisted  largely  of  the  "average 
lordship." 

In  fact,  the  reason  of  these  present  visits  lay  in 


A    Woman's   Face  85 

the  unwonted  agitations — the  shocks,  resentments 
and  constant  surprises  in  this  man's  ideas.  His 
points  of  view  were  a  novelty.  To  her  conven 
tional  training  and  habits  of  thought  they  came  as 
flashes  of  light  through  obscuring  clouds.  Some 
what  painfully — yet  with  an  unacknowledged  plea 
sure — her  horizon  was  suddenly  enlarged.  Both 
him  and  his  opinions  she  regarded  with  a  certain 
fear — a  sort  of  guilty  fascination. 

His  last  remark  was  followed  by  a  silence  longer 
than  usual.  Lady  Octavia  was  reflecting.  She  had 
learned  that  this  man  often  presented  his  ideas, 
whatever  their  nature  or  the  strength  of  his  convic 
tions,  in  playful  language,  or,  as  amusing  nonsense. 
With  him,  apparently,  a  serious  thought,  or  even  a 
solemn  truth,  lost  nothing  by  a  touch  of  humor. 

As  she  reflected  she  began  to  wonder  if  she  was 
to  go  through  life  meeting  only  the  intellectual  ref 
use  of  the  world.  This  discovery,  or  suspicion,  was 
disturbing.  At  last,  in  a  meditative  tone,  more  to 
herself  than  to  him,  "It  is  certainly  a  new  idea  that 
noble  birth  should  be  an  obstacle  in  life." 

"An  obstacle?  Well,  I  should  say  not!  Do  you 
happen  to  have  read  Pascal  ?" 

"No." 

"He  says  that  good  birth  gives  a  man,  at  eighteen, 
the  distinction  and  respect  an  ordinary  man  would 
acquire,  on  his  merits,  at  fifty.  A  gain  of  thirty 
years  at  one  stroke." 

"I  suppose  that  is  true." 


86  Pandora's    Box 

"If  ever  I  have  children,"  said  the  draughtsman, 
"I  shall  impress  upon  them  the  advantages  of  noble 
birth  and  advise  them  to  inherit  titles." 

Then,  after  a  stolen  glance  at  the  back  of  her 
head,  which  was  still  toward  him,  ''Take,  for  in 
stance,  these  Drumworths.  They  occupy  a  front  seat 
wherever  they  go.  And  I  suppose  they  have  a  sense 
of  importance  that  would  paralyze  humble  workers 
in  the  vineyard  like  you  or  me.  And  to  think  that 
Shakespeare,  Galileo  or  Columbus,  in  the  presence 
of  an  earl,  or  even  a  Fatacres,  would  have  stood  hat 
in  hand !  Verily,  the  Human  Comedy  is  a  wondrous 
thing." 

As  his  listener  continued  to  look,  in  silence,  out 
the  window,  he  inquired : 

"What  is  your  opinion?" 

"Perhaps  these  Drumworths  are  not  so  conceited 
as  you  think." 

"Oh,  the  Drumworths  may  be  all  right.  I  was 
speaking  more  of  the  Human  Comedy  as  a  play,  and 
casting  no  aspersions  upon  the  actors.  But  apropos 
of  Drumworths  and  belted  earls,  why  is  it  one  never 
hears  of  belted  architects  or  belted  barbers?  Are 
there  especially  sanctifying  properties  in  a  belt?  And 
what  kind  of  a  belt  is  it?" 

No  reply  was  given. 

Then  he  recited,  in  a  maner  suited  to  heroic  verse : 

Shall  honest  housewife  longer  brook 
The  tyranny  of  belted  cook? 

What  do  you  think  of  that?" 


A   Woman's   Face  87 

Octavia,  regarding  him  with  a  look  of  disdainful 
pity,  breathed  a  long  drawn,  weary  sigh :  "I  wonder 
if  you  ever  realize  how  very  silly  you  are  at  times?" 

"Yes,  indeed !  It  is  the  unbending  of  a  great 
mind.'7 

"Really!"  and  with  a  contemptuous  shrug  she 
again  turned  away.  Then,  still  looking  toward  the 
garden,  "Are  all  architects  silly?" 

"All  the  best  ones." 

For  a  few  moments  the  architect  seemed  absorbed 
in  his  work.  Occasional  fragments  of  operas, 
marches,  waltzes  and  popular  songs  were  whistled 
and  hummed  as  he  bent  earnestly  over  his  drawing 
or  stood  aloft  on  his  stool. 

The  lady  in  the  window,  after  languidly  watching 
him  for  a  time,  inquired,  "Where  did  you  get  that 
extraordinary  garment  you  have  on?" 

"Paris.  The  students  in  the  ateliers  all  wear 
them." 

"Why  such  large  initials  on  the  back  ?  Were  you 
afraid  the  treasure  might  be  stolen?" 

"That  was  exactly  the  reason.  The  blouses  are 
all  alike.  But  if  another  student  took  this  one  I 
could  recognize  it." 

"I  should  think  so — and  from  any  distance !" 

Then  it  so  happened  that  Ethan  Love  joy,  for  a 
longer  time  than  usual,  refrained  from  all  attempts 
at  music. 

So  silent  was  the  Old  Hall,  so  peaceful  the  gar 
den  beneath  the  open  window,  that  no  sounds 


88  Pandora's    Box 

reached  Octavia's  ears  except  those  from  the  archi 
tect's  table — from  his  pencil  as  it  moved  along  the 
drawing,  from  the  faint  click  of  his  wooden  triangle 
against  the  T  square,  and  the  occasional  rustle  of  a 
sheet  of  tracing-paper.  The  subdued  and  measured 
snore  of  Baseborn's  siesta  was  no  disturber  of  the 
peace.  It  merely  served  as  a  soothing  accompani 
ment  to  the  prevailing  silence.  This  silence  was  rest 
ful.  It  invited  one  to  reverie,  and  to  easy  thoughts. 
Octavia,  in  a  day  dream,  sat  looking  through  the 
open  window  over  the  sunny  fields,  to  the  grey, 
square  tower  of  the  village  church,  a  mile  away. 

As  the  cessation  of  an  accustomed  noise  often  at 
tracts  our  notice,  so  Octavia,  after  a  time,  awakened 
to  the  fact  that  no  sounds  were  coming  from  the 
neighboring  table.  Idly  she  turned  her  head  in  that 
direction.  Her  eyes  opened  a  trifle  wider  as  she 
discovered  that  Ethan  Lovejoy,  his  chin  in  his  hand, 
was  gazing  intently  toward  her  in  what  seemed  a 
very  earnest  and  absorbing  study  of  herself.  As  the 
familiar  grey  eyes  encountered  her  disapproving 
glance  their  owner  showed  a  slight  embarrassment. 
He  straightened  up,  made  as  if  to  go  on  with  his 
work,  then  changed  his  mind. 

"Excuse  my  staring  at  you,  but  there  are  moments 
when  you  bear  a  strong  resemblance  to  a  friend  of 
mine." 

Octavia  nodded,  but  in  a  barely  perceptible  man 
ner,  as  if  the  statement,  while  possibly  correct,  was 
not  of  surpassing  interest. 


A   Woman's   Face  89 

From  beneath  his  blouse  he  drew  forth,  out  of  a 
waistcoat  pocket,  a  card  case.  From  this  case  he 
took  a  photograph,  about  the  size  of  a  visiting 
card,  and  brought  it  over  and  held  it  before  the 
lady's  face.  Then  it  was  that  Octavia's  indifference 
vanished;  so  suddenly,  so  swiftly  and  with  so  un 
expected  a  shock  that  she  caught  her  breath.  She 
suppressed  an  exclamation — almost  doubting  her 
own  eyes.  Her  lips  parted.  Her  eyebrows  went  up 
— then  down,  and  for  an  instant  her  breathing 
ceased.  She  was  looking  at  her  own  portrait ! 

Into  her  neck  and  cheeks,  and  even  to  the  roots 
of  her  hair,  came  a  tingling — of  shock,  and  indig 
nation.  She  straightened  up,  drew  back,  frowned, 
blinked  and  looked  again.  Yes,  her  own  portrait ! — 
the  one  taken  a  month  ago,  at  Windsor,  with  other 
guests  at  the  Queen's  luncheon.  And  as  she  realized 
that  this  man  must  have  cut  it  out,  and  was  carrying 
it  in  his  pocket,  she  experienced  yet  another  tingling 
along  her  spine  and  through  the  roots  of  her  hair; 
this  time  of  outraged  dignity — and  hot  anger.  Con 
trolling  herself,  however,  she  merely  frowned,  then 
closed  her  eyes,  not  daring,  on  the  instant,  to  trust 
herself  to  speak. 

Lovejoy  withdrew  the  photograph.  "You  don't 
seem  pleased." 

"I  am  not." 

"Well,  but  good  heavens !  She  is  a  mighty  hand 
some  girl,  /  think." 

Octavia  made  no  reply.     Still  with  an  angry  color 


90  Pandora's    Box 

in  her  cheeks,  she  looked  away,  through  the  open 
casement.  She  knew  this  portrait  was  for  sale,  but 
she  had  only  considered  it  as  one  of  a  group.  That 
a  man  should  carry  it  about,  alone  by  itself  in  his 
pocket,  was  a  thing  she  had  never  thought  of,  and 
could  not  bear  to  think  of  now.  She  felt  vulgarized, 
cheapened,  inexpressibly  mortified.  She  was  likely 
to  become,  according  to  this  experience  in  publicity, 
the  pocket  companion,  the  apparent  sweetheart,  the 
"best  girl"  of  any  man,  of  any  kind,  who  chose  to 
buy  her!  Her  impulse  was  to  snatch  the  picture. 
Tightly  she  clenched  her  fingers,  and  tightly  she 
shut  her  eyes  to  keep  back  tears  of  anger  and  hu 
miliation. 

"But  don't  you  think  she  is  pretty?"  he  persisted. 

There  was  no  answer.  Octavia  was  biting  her 
lips  and  was  frowning,  in  suppressed  anger,  over 
the  smiling  landscape. 

He  withdrew  the  photograph  and  studied  it  him 
self.  "There's  no  telling  a  woman's  taste.  Now,  to 
me  that's  an  exceptionally  interesting  face.  And 
she's  a  howling  swell,  too." 

Still  receiving  no  attention  he  breathed  a  sigh — a 
somewhat  ostentatious  sigh — and  returned  to  his 
work. 

Octavia,  for  a  moment,  dared  not  trust  herself 
to  speak.  Any  display  of  feeling  might  lead  him 
to  suspect  that  it  was  her  own  portrait.  And  she 
desired,  for  many  reasons,  to  preserve  her  incog 
nito  of  the  gardener's  daughter.  Yet,  she  tingled 


A   Woman's   Face  9X 

with  shame  as  she  saw  her  portrait  return  to  his 
pocket  as  an  intimate  and  personal  treasure.  While 
striving  to  control  her  anger,  and  frowning  upon  the 
most  conspicuous  object  in  the  foreground,  which 
happened  to  be  the  guiltless  Baseborn,  she  heard  the 
architect's  voice,  reciting  these  lines : 

"Abou  Ben  Lovejoy,  may  his  tribe  increase, 
Awoke  one  morning  from  an  architectural  dream, 
And  saw  within  the  sunlight  of  his  room 
An  angel,  exceeding  cross — and  sulking." 

She  turned  toward  him,  but  with  her  eyes  still 
upon  Baseborn.  "You  say  the  original  of  that  pic 
ture  is  a  friend  of  yours." 

"Oh,  yes!" 

She  merely  closed  her  eyes,  sincerely  regretting 
that  this  man  should  so  clearly  prove  himself  a  liar. 

"That  is,"  he  went  on,  "I  am  a  good  friend  of 
hers.  I  know  her  well.  But  she,  poor  thing!  has 
not  the  pleasure  of  my  acquaintance." 

"Who  is  she?" 

"Why  ask  such  embarrassing  questions?  The 
shopkeeper  could  not  tell  me.  And,  perhaps,  after 
all,  it  is  just  as  well  I  should  never  know.  If  I  dis 
covered  that  she  was  an  awful  snob,  or  a  crazy 
princess,  or  some  nose-in-the-air  begum,  all  the 
charm  would  be  gone.  A  happy  dream  would  end." 

"How  did  you  happen  to  get  the  picture?" 

Ethan  Lovejoy  laid  down  his  pencil,  wheeled 
slowly  about  on  his  stool,  placed  one  leg  over  the 


92  Pandora's   Box 

other  and  clasped  his  hands  around  a  knee.  With 
his  head  inclined  to  one  side  as  if  to  aid  his  memory 
— or  his  language — he  thus  replied:  "It  happened 
in  London ;  a  week  ago  Thursday.  I  was  on  my  way 
to  the  station  in  a  gentle  but  searching  rain ;  my  first 
journey  to  Drumworth.  Having  lots  of  time  I 
stopped  to  look  at  a  photograph  in  a  shop  window. 
But  it  proved  to  be  the  inevitable  group  of  royalties 
and  their  usual  playmates,  so  I  turned  away.  Then, 
as  an  object  of  peculiar  interest  caught  my  eye,  I 
stopped  and  looked  again.  At  one  end  of  the  group, 
between  the  King  and  the  Kaiser  stood  a  young 
lady,  this  young  lady;  and  her  face — well — from 
that  instant  I  was  a  goner.  No  use  describing  her 
face,  for  we  have  it  here,  but  it  was — and  is — such 
an  extraordinary,  unprecedented,  irresistible  mix 
ture  of  contradictory  human  traits  that  I  was  liter 
ally  spellbound." 

His  listener  turned  her  face  for  a  moment  still 
more  toward  the  window  as  if  for  a  better  view  of 
something  in  the  old  garden. 

The  architect  continued:  "At  the  moment  the 
photo  was  taken,  the  King,  the  Kaiser  and  this  girl 
were  having,  evidently,  some  little  joke  between 
them.  All  three  were  trying  to  repress  a  smile. 
And  as  I  stood  in  the  rain  and  looked  into  this  girl's 
face,  for  I  had  lowered  my  umbrella  to  get  my  nose 
nearer  the  glass,  I  also  began  to  smile — just  from 
friendliness.  I  don't  know  how  long  I  stood  there, 
but  one  or  two  other  people  who  also  wanted  to  see 


A   Woman's  Face  93 

the  picture  began  to  crowd  me  gently  as  if  they 
thought  I  must  have  had  my  fill.    So  I  backed  away, 
still  smiling,  and  departed.     But  after  I  had  gone 
about  a  block  I  began  to  feel  strange  yearnings.     I 
realized,  with  shame,  that  I  must  go  back  and  look 
some  more.    So,  having  time  to  burn,  I  did  go  back. 
For  several  minutes  I  again  drank  her  in.     Once 
more  I  smiled  with  her,  as  Baseborn  here,  might 
smile  with  the  moon.    Then  I  made  a  wild  resolve. 
You  must  know  that  I  was  already  carrying  a  fat 
valise,  two  rolls  of  drawings  and  an  open  umbrella, 
so  I  could  not  possibly  manage  that  big  photograph. 
But  into  the  shop  I  went,  and  bought  the  thing.    In  a 
careless  way,  as  if  nobody  cared  much,  I  asked  the 
shopkeeper  who  the  person  was,  standing  between 
the  two  monarchs.    He  said  he  didn't  know.    Being 
— presumably — a  snob,  he  seemed  ashamed  of  his 
ignorance.    Then  I  took  a  pair  of  shears  that  were 
lying  on  the  counter  and  proceeded  to  cut  her  out, 
that  I  might  carry  her  in  my  pocket.    But  the  shop 
keeper,  a  most  respectable  and  loyal  patriot  with 
gray  side  whiskers,  put  forth  a  hand  in  horror. 
'You  are  cutting  right  through  the  King!'  he  ex 
claimed.     'Kings,'  I  said,  'are  like  the  waves  of  the 
sea.    When  one  disappears  another  takes  his  place. 
But  a  face  like  this  is  a  thing  apart,  a  pearl  in  the 
millionth  oyster,  and  is  worth  any  sacrifice.'    When 
the  next  cut  destroyed  the  Kaiser  he  muttered:    'If 
I  had  known,  sir,  that  you  were  going  to  spoil  the 
picture  I  would  not  have  sold  it  to  you.'     But  I 


94  Pandora's    Box 

smiled  upon  him,  a  happy  and  perhaps  imbecile 
smile.  I  told  him  that  a  beautiful  woman  was  far 
above  Kaisers.  He  seemed  in  doubt.  But  I  put  the 
lady  in  my  safest  pocket  and  sped  away." 

Octavia  lowered  her  eyes.  She  seemed  interested 
in  Baseborn,  who  acknowledged  the  attention  by 
raising  his  ears  and  wagging  his  tail. 

"That  shopkeeper,"  she  said  in  a  tone  intended  to 
express  indifference,  "must  have  thought  you  crazy." 

Lovejoy  nodded.  "And  if  he  had  watched  me  in 
the  train  on  the  way  down  here  that  afternoon,  he 
would  have  been  sure  of  it.  In  order  that  others  in 
the  compartment  should  not  suspect  my  folly  I  laid 
the  portrait  between  the  leaves  of  a  book,  where  I 
could  enjoy  it,  and  I  pretended  to  be  reading." 

Octavia  said  nothing.  But  the  silence  was  mis 
leading.  It  merely  served,  at  the  present  moment, 
as  a  shield  to  an  inward  revolt.  And  it  must  be  re 
membered,  in  justice  to  Octavia,  that  by  her  own 
family,  and  by  all  the  countryside,  she  had  been  re 
garded,  from  birth,  as  a  being  of  peculiar  merit  and 
importance.  This  perpetual  worship  had  given  its 
victim  an  exalted  conception  of  her  own  personal 
sanctity.  Now,  to  discover  suddenly  that  she  had 
become,  in  a  sense,  the  property  of  a  stranger,  of 
the  first  man  who  happened  to  like  her  face,  was  to 
her  the  grossest  profanation.  She  had  become,  it 
seemed,  a  public  thing;  her  face  a  purchasable  toy. 
And  the  thought  was  unbearable  that  this  portrait  of 
herself,  which  no  earthly  power  could  have  induced 


A   Woman's   Face  95 

her  to  present  to  men  of  her  acquaintance — even  to 
those  whom  she  best  knew — had  become  the  prop 
erty  of  whosoever  chose  to  carry  it  in  his  pocket 
Her  cheeks  burned,  and  her  fingers  within  the  gar 
den  gloves  were  pinching  one  another.  But  her 
martyrdom  was  not  yet  complete.  With  this  affront 
to  all  her  finer  feelings  another  and  severer  shock 
was  yet  to  come. 

As  Ethan  Love  joy  finished  he  had  wheeled  around 
as  if  to  go  on  with  his  work.  But,  with  an  elbow 
on  the  table,  his  cheek  against  his  hand  as  in  a 
reverie,  he  went  on,  in  a  lower  tone,  his  eyes  upon 
the  little  portrait  that  he  had  again  taken  from  his 
pocket  and  laid  before  him: 

"Oh,  but  the  happy  hours  we  have  passed  to 
gether,  this  girl  and  I !" 

He  then  repeated  these  lines  : 

"And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant, 

And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold. 
And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 
In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old 

We  have  walked  through  flowery  fields,  reclined 
in  shady  groves  and  danced  together  in  palaces. 
Although  I  have  known  her  but  a  week  we  have 
been  wrecked  in  southern  seas  and  lived  for  years, 
we  two  alone,  upon  a  coral  island.  She  is  a  splen 
did  girl — a  sacred  thing.  I  shall  frame  this  picture 
and  keep  her  entirely  to  myself.  I  only  showed  it 
to  you,  you  know,  because  of  a  certain  resemblance. 


96  Pandora's    Box 

But  I  shall  keep  her  hidden  away  in  some  desk  or 
drawer.  No  one  shall  ever  see  or  know  anything 
about  her.  Her  real  character  I  myself  shall  never 
know,  although  I  have  endowed  her  with  every  con 
ceivable  virtue.  But  there's  a  shadow  to  these  sunny 
memories.  For  it's  a  melancholy  thought  that  she 
herself,  poor  thing !  has  had  none  of  these  joys.  Her 
own  life,  during  these  celestial  years,  may  have  been 
as  commonplace  and  stupidly  conventional  as  her 
companions  in  the  photograph.'' 

He  paused,  but  without  changing  his  position.  His 
outraged  listener  dared  not  trust  herself  to  speak. 
All  her  powers  of  will  were  needed  to  preserve  an 
outward  calm. 

"Are  you  familiar,"  he  inquired  after  a  pause, 
"with  those  silent,  moonlit,  heavenly  nights  on  Ital 
ian  lakes  ?" 

The  lady  at  the  window  made  no  reply. 

"Well,  we  have  floated  for  hours  in  a  narrow  lit 
tle  skiff,  so  very  close  together,  she  and  I,  both  in 
body  and  in  spirit,  that  our  souls  were  one.  But  per 
haps  you  have  never  been  in  love  and  don't  know 
what  all  that  means. " 

Still  silence  at  the  window.  No  signs  of  atten 
tion  from  the  averted  face.  He  took  up  his  pencil 
and  went  on  with  his  work.  Several  moments 
passed  before  Octavia  spoke,  and  then  her  voice, 
despite  all  efforts  at  control,  was  constrained  and 
uneven. 

"Do  you  think  the  lady  would  be  pleased  if  she 


A   Woman's   Face  97 

knew  her  portrait  was  being  carried  about  in  your 
pocket?" 

"She  will  never  know.  We  are  too  far  apart.  Be 
tween  this  girl  and  such  trash  as  you  and  me  there 
is  a  bottomless  gulf.  Why,  Kings  and  Kaisers  bow 
down  before  her.  She  is  miles  and  miles  above  the 
earth  we  tread.  But  her  face,  for  me,  has  the  fasci 
nation  an  evening  star  might  have  for  any  crawling 
thing,  or  any  earth  bound  beast  of  burden — a  don 
key,  for  instance." 

Octavia,  still  struggling  to  control  her  emotions, 
sat  erect,  and  silent. 

"I  think,"  he  went  on,  "what  makes  her  so  infer 
nally  seductive,  perhaps,  is  the  combination  in  her 
face  of  a  certain  girlish  sensibility  with  an  infini 
tude  of  unreasoning  pride — and  overwhelming  and 
sincere  conviction  of  her  own  superiority.  Now 
that  nose,  for  instance,  is  loftiness  itself.  And  by 
the  way,  it  is  exactly  like  your  own,  isn't  it?"  and 
again  he  came  over  and  held  the  picture  before  her. 
"If  you  will  excuse  my  saying  so,  yours  is  a  stately 
little  nose.  If  you  were  a  duchess  you  would  have 
a  perfect  face  to  snub  with,  and  to  look  offensively 
superior." 

For  an  instant  Octavia's  eyes  rested  frigidly  upon 
the  picture.  Then  again  she  looked  out  the  window. 
Ethan  Lovejoy  replaced  the  photograph  in  his  pocket 
and  went  back  to  his  table.  He  whistled  gently  as 
he  tore  off  a  piece  of  tracing  paper  and  laid  it  over 
a  portion  of  the  castle. 


98  Pandora's    Box 

"You  do  not  appear  to  realize,"  said  Octavia, 
"your  own  impertinence." 

"Impertinence !"  and  he  turned  toward  her  with  a 
look  of  amazement. 

"Most  emphatically." 

"What  an  idea!  Could  I  pay  her  a  higher  com 
pliment?  Why,  in  that  group  there  were  nearly 
twenty  people — all  the  cream  of  the  earth — and  she 
was  the  only  one  I  wanted.  Moreover,  it  is  my  only 
experience  of  the  kind.  I  am  not  given  to  collecting 
faces/' 

"Very  likely,  but  she  would  be  angry,  mortified, 
disgusted  if  she  knew  it." 

"Never!" 

"If  you  had  a  sister  would  you  like  to  have  her 
portrait,  under  similar  conditions,  carried  about  by 
men  who  were  strangers  to  her?" 

Ethan  Lovejoy  stopped  in  his  work,  lowered  his 
chin,  and  tapped  his  forehead  with  his  pencil.  "Why 
— er — I  don't  think  I  should  object — if  my  sister 
didn't." 

"But  if  your  sister  knew  nothing  about  it." 

"It  would  make  all  the  difference  who  the  man 


was." 


"No,  it  would  not.  You  know  very  well  that  this 
lady  would  be  justly  angry.  So  would  her  father 
and  her  brothers — if  she  had  any." 

He  smiled.  "Why  do  you  mention  father  and 
brothers  instead  of  mother  and  sisters?  You  are 
trying  to  scare  me." 


A   Woman's   Face  99 

"I  merely  mentioned  them  because  you  are  a  man 
yourself  and  can  better  understand.  I  am  appealing 
to  your  sense  of  honor." 

"So  bad  as  that?" 

Octavia  took  her  basket  and  stood  up.  "Then 
keep  the  picture  and  carry  it  about  with  you — and 
show  it  to  your  friends,  and  laugh  and  joke  about 
it."  And  a  pair  of  contemptuous,  angry  eyes  looked 
down  upon  him. 

"Now  wait  a  minute,  Miss  Gardener.  You 
travel  too  fast.  Your  sympathy  for  the  victim  car 
ries  you  away.  You  are  the  only  person  to  whom 
I  have  shown  it,  or  might  ever  show  it." 

Octavia  merely  turned  her  glance  severely  upon 
Baseborn,  who  stood  at  her  feet,  gazing  up.  Then  a 
clever  idea  came  to  her.  With  a  more  amiable  ex 
pression  she  extended  her  hand.  "Let  me  look  at  it 
again,  for  a  moment." 

He  shook  his  head.    "No  you  don't." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  mean  you  are  too  good  a  friend  of  hers.  I 
don't  trust  you.  You  might  keep  it,  or  do  some 
other  awful  thing." 

"I  will  return  it." 

"Honest  injun?" 

This  was  a  new  expression  to  the  lady,  but  she 
guessed  at  its  meaning,  and  nodded.  From  the 
pocket  beneath  his  blouse  he  produced  the  picture 
and  laid  it  in  her  hand.  She  appeared  to  study  it 
and  to  consider  it  more  seriously.  "I  think,  on  the 


ioo  Pandora's   Box 

whole,  I  had  better  keep  it,  as  you  are  not  treating 
her  fairly.37 

"But  I  only  lent  it  to  you  for  a  moment." 

"As  my  duty  to  another  woman  I  must  keep  it." 

Slowly  and  solemnly  he  shook  his  head.  "And 
after  you  promised  to  return  it !" 

'"I  did  not  say  when  I  would  return  it." 

"Really,  I  blush  for  you.  Such  a  dishonest  little 
trick!" 

Then  it  was  Octavia  who  blushed.  "It  is  not  a 
dishonest  trick!  In  keeping  it  I  am  merely  doing 
what  I  should  like  another  woman  to  do  for  me." 

"Ah,  but  you  know  very  well  you  secured  it  by  a 
trick !  I  did  not  give  it  to  you." 

"Well,  I  may  return  it.  Consider  it  a  loan,  if  you 
prefer.  Good  morning."  And  she  walked  away. 

Out  into  the  Garden  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty  she 
passed.  There,  from  above  her,  from  the  great 
window  where  she  had  been  sitting  a  moment  ago, 
came  the  architect's  voice. 

"Miss  Gardener!" 

She  stopped,  involuntarily,  turned  and  looked  up. 
Ethan  Love  joy  was  leaning  out.  Also  at  the  open 
window  was  Baseborn  standing  on  the  wide,  stone 
sill.  And  he  also  was  looking  down  at  her,  his  head 
cocked  to  one  side,  with  ears  alert,  as  if  pleasantly 
excited  by  the  situation.  It  was  for  a  second  only 
that  Octavia  paused.  But  before  she  could  turn 
away  the  man  cried  out : 


A  Woman's  Face 

"If  you  have  a  spark  of  honor  you  will  be 
ashamed  of  yourself  before  the  sun  goes  down." 

The  lady's  only  reply,  as  she  continued  her  walk, 
was  a  very  slight  but  disdainful  movement  of  the 
lips  and  eyebrows.  Without  looking  back  she  knew 
that  Ethan  Lovejoy  and  Baseborn  were  still  watch 
ing  her  as  she  moved,  with  outward  indifference, 
along  the  garden  path  between  the  rows  of  over- 
grown  box,  until  she  disappeared  beneath  the  ancient 
archway. 


VIII 

AMERICANA 

BENEATH  the  cloistered  arches  and  through 
her  own  garden  Octavia  walked,  the  victim 
of  riotous  emotions.  Angry  with  this  man 
for  his  liberties  with  her  portrait,  insulted  by  the 
freedom  of  his  imaginings,  she  was,  however,  vic 
torious  in  the  possession  of  the  photograph.  Never 
theless,  her  manner  of  acquiring  it  had  already 
brought  a  sense  of  shame.  And  this,  in  the  nature 
of  things,  intensified  her  anger. 

Marching  slowly  along  the  great  terrace  she  tried 
to  compose  herself.  She  tried  to  banish  the  intruder 
from  her  thoughts  before  encountering  the  watchful 
glances  of  her  family.  But  these  efforts  were 
brought  to  a  sudden  end  by  the  exclamation  of  a  ser 
vant  who  was  hastening  to  meet  her. 

"Your  ladyship !    Mr.  Rutherton  is  here." 

"Oh,  I  forgot !"  and  Octavia  quickened  her  steps. 

Mr.  Edward  St.  George  Rutherton  was  not  in  the 
habit  of  being  forgotten;  never  by  the  parents  of 
marriageable  daughters.  One  of  the  richest  men  in 
England,  connected  with  the  highest  families,  a 
bachelor  of  thirty-five,  with  a  sound  head,  a  kind 
heart  and  charming  manner — and  more  than  good- 

102 


Americana  I03 

looking — he  was,  upon  all  occasions,  in  every  home, 
in  every  club,  at  any  function,  public  or  private,  not 
only  a  welcome  but  a  much  desired  guest.  As 
traveler,  scholar,  philanthropist,  wit,  social  luminary 
and  "all  around  good  fellow"  he  would  have  been  a 
success  without  his  millions. 

Hastening  through  the  great  hall  Octavia  stopped 
for  a  moment  and  looked  over  the  letters  of  the  last 
mail  as  they  lay  upon  the  table.  One  of  these  letters 
was  addressed  to  Mr.  Ethan  Lovejoy.  As  it  bore  a 
foreign  stamp  she  gratified  her  curiosity  and  de 
ciphered  the  postmark.  The  letter  was  from  the 
City  of  New  York  in  the  United  States  of  America. 
Whereupon  a  wise  look  came  into  her  face.  So  her 
draughtsman  was  an  American !  Certain  unfamiliar 
expressions  he  had  used  were  now  explained :  also 
his  absurd  name  of  Ethan.  Of  course  she  had  heard 
the  name  of  Ethan,  even  in  England,  but  it  was  rare. 
Whereas,  in  America,  presumably  nearly  all  the  men 
were  named  Ethan.  And,  anyway,  she  did  not  like 
the  name.  While  it  was  not  so  bad  a  name  as  Bare- 
bones,  for  instance,  it  was  bad  enough.  Surely  no 
man  could  be  a  hero  with  such  a  name  as  Ethan !  In 
Drumworth  village  there  was  one  Ethan  Slopps,  a 
harness  maker  whose  name  had  always  affected  her 
unpleasantly. 

As  she  held  this  letter  Lord  Aylesden  entered.  He 
was  a  tall,  well  built  man  whose  features — with  the 
exception  of  a  somewhat  heavy  jaw  and  chin — 
were  perfect. 


104  Pandora's   Box 

"Father,  who  is  Ethan  Lovejoy?" 

"Who? — oh — Ethan  Lovejoy?  That  is  a  man  I 
am  having  some  business  with.  You  know  Ruther- 
ton  is  here  ?" 

"Yes.  I  will  be  down  in  a  moment.  This  is  a 
curious  stamp.  Is  your  Lovejoy  man  an  Ameri 
can?" 

"I  believe  he  is." 

While  descending  the  monumental  staircase — re 
built  in  the  seventeenth  century — she  made  two  re 
solves.  First:  that  she  would  now  retaliate  upon 
Mr.  Ethan  Lovejoy,  the  Yankee,  for  some  of  his 
freely  expressed  opinions  on  herself  and  her  family. 
Whereby  she  might  enjoy,  perhaps,  a  little  enter 
tainment  at  his  expense. 

Second :  as  it  was  now  clear  that  her  father  was 
deliberately  and  in  cold  blood  keeping  from  his 
daughter  the  knowledge  of  these  vast  alterations  of 
her  own  home,  that  daughter  could  now  proceed 
with  a  clear  conscience,  and  as  a  duty  to  herself,  to 
unravel  the  mystery  if  it  lay  in  her  power.  And 
she  had  confidence  in  her  ability. 

It  was  in  accordance  with  the  first  of  these  re 
solves  that  the  conversation  at  lunch,  half  an  hour 
later,  seemed  to  drift  quite  naturally  in  a  trans 
atlantic  direction,  particularly  as  Mr.  Rutherton 
had  recently  returned  from  "the  States."  And 
their  guest  soon  found  himself  enlightening  his  hosts 
as  to  the  manner  and  customs  of  the  Americans.  Mr. 
Rutherton  wore  a  close  trimmed,  pointed  beard  and 


Americana  I05 

mustaches  that  were  slightly  assertive.  He  habit 
ually  raised  his  eyebrows  when  speaking,  which 
gave  additional  animation  to  an  already  animated 
face.  He  liked  to  talk,  and  he  talked  well.  More 
over,  he  was  an  attentive  and  patient  listener.  He 
had  lived  five  years  in  the  United  States — "And 
although  I  have  many  warm  friends  among  our 
cousins,  five  years  is  enough." 

"Cousins !"  exclaimed  Lady  Georgiana.  "Suppose 
they  were  really  our  cousins!  What  an  awful 
thought !" 

"Tell  me  about  the  American  women,  Mr.  Ruther- 
ton.  They  are  very  pretty,  are  they  not?"  And 
Octavia  leaned  slightly  forward  with  an  obvious 
yearning  for  knowledge  that  would  have  drawn 
fountains  of  information  from  much  sterner  stuff 
than  Mr.  Edward  St.  George  Rutherton. 

"Yes,  pretty.  But  their  voices — "  and  Mr.  Ruth 
erton  raised  his  eyebrows  and  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"I  have  always  heard,"  said  Aunt  George,  "that 
they  are  noisy  and  unattractive." 

"Hardly  unattractive,  I  should  say,"  interposed 
the  Earl,  "considering  how  they  are  gobbled  up  by 
various  English  dukes." 

"By  dukes  in  distress,"  said  Mr.  Rutherton.  "Few 
women  who  offer  a  dowry  of  a  million  dollars  are 
unattractive  to  an  embarrassed  nobleman." 

"And  did  you  find  the  men,"  Lady  Octavia  in 
quired,  "even  less  attractive  than  the  women  ?" 

"No,  not  all!    The  men  are  far  quieter  than  the 


io6  Pandora's    Box 

women.  Less  noisy  and  less  pretentious.  I  like 
the  men;  they  talk  less  and  say  more.  The  trouble 
with  American  women  is  that  they  are  extremists; 
either  frankly  frivolous,  or  intellectual.  And  the 
intellectual  American  woman  is  an  appalling  thing." 

"But  why  worse  than  other  nationalities?" 

"Because  she  talks  a  good  deal  more,  a  great  deal 
faster  and  in  a  thinner  voice.  And  her  intellectual 
ity  is  a  pose.  It  never  accomplishes  anything.  She 
merely  absorbs  a  lot  of  useless  knowledge — useless 
to  her — and  pumps  it  into  others." 

"But  American  women,  as  a  rule,  are  very  lively 
are  they  not? — very  animated,  quick  witted  and 
clever?" 

"Yes.    But  so  are  American  mosquitoes." 

Lady  Octavia's  interest  was  gratifying,  and  the 
guest  continued: 

"An  American  dinner,  for  instance,  to  an  English 
man  before  he  gets  hardened,  is  an  exhausting  ex 
perience.  They  have  an  idea,  over  there,  that  un 
less  somebody  is  talking  you  are  bored.  So  either 
you  or  the  woman  beside  you  is  talking  all  the 
time." 

"But  when  do  you  eat?"  inquired  Lord  Aylesden. 

"Between  words." 

"Fancy!"  said  Lady  Georgiana.  "That  must  be 
exceedingly  tiresome;  and  quite  wearing,  after  a 
while." 

"It  is.  But  after  you  once  'catch  on/  as  they  say 
over  there,  you  can  make  out  a  dinner  by  eating 


Americana  I07 

faster  than  usual.  The  woman  on  either  side  of  you 
asks  nothing  better  than  to  do  most  of  the  talking." 

"Fancy!"  said  Lady  Georgiana. 

Then  followed  a  silence  in  which  the  four  people 
partook  leisurely  of  the  food  before  them.  And 
this  food  was  deliciously  cooked  and  daintily  pre 
sented.  For  the  Drumworth  cook  was  an  imported 
artist. 

"You  know  the  Duchess  of  Fanesbury?"  Mr. 
Rutherton  inquired  of  Lady  Octavia. 

"Yes.     She  came  from  the  States." 

"Well,  she  would  not  be  considered  especially 
nervous  or  chattery  in  her  own  country." 

"Really!" 

"Imagine  living  in  such  a  country,"  said  Lady 
Georgiana.  "Dishonest  men — for  that  is  certainly 
their  reputation — and  such  women!" 

Into  Octavia's  sensitive  face  came  a  mixture  of 
distress  and  wonder.  "But  surely,  all  the  men  are 
not  dishonest." 

"No,  indeed!  I  knew  some  very  honest  ones. 
Collectively,  however,  I  am  afraid  their  reputation 
is  deserved.  You  see,  they  are  all  in  such  a  hurry  to 
get  on — to  make  money  in  the  quickest  way  that 
they  have  no  time  to  be  too  punctilious  about  it." 

"It  is  all  very  inexcusable,"  said  Lady  Georgiana, 
"as  some  of  them  are  descended  from  good  English 
families.  They  certainly  must  have  a  sense  of 
shame." 

"Shame!     Why,  Lady  Georgiana,  their  pride  in 


Pandora's    Box 

themselves  is  so  stupendous,  so  solid,  so  laughable, 
that  it  ceases  to  offend.  It  is  the  one  case  in  which 
their  famous  sense  of  humor  fails." 

"But  the  beggars  must  suspect,"  said  Lord  Ayles- 
den,  "how  they  are  regarded  by  the  rest  of  the 
world." 

"Not  a  bit!  As  for  the  rest  of  the  world,  it  has 
their  contemptuous  pity." 

"Fancy!"  said  Auntie  George. 

"They  consider  us  English  slow  and  dull,  the 
French  frivolous  and  unreliable,  the  Germans  stupid, 
the  Italians  behind  the  age  and  the  Russians  bar 
barians.  They  honestly  believe  themselves  the  un 
paralleled  people.  They  take  their  high-pressure  life 
in  all  seriousness." 

"But  Mr.  Rutherton,"  protested  Octavia,  "you  say 
they  are  dishonest,  and  yet  you  like  them." 

"Because  they  are  often  agreeable  and  entertain 
ing  companions,  fair  minded  and  generous.  You 
might  take  many  of  them  for  cultivated  English 


men." 


"Just  fancy!"  And  Auntie  George  merely  raised 
her  eyebrows  although  she  fully  realized  the  absurd 
ity  of  the  statement. 

"And  they  do  not  mean,"  continued  Mr.  Ruther 
ton,  "to  be  dishonest.  In  fact,  they  do  not  realize  it. 
Although  corrupt  themselves,  they  despise  a  thief 
— unless  the  theft  is  big  enough,  when  they  respect 
it.  For  instance,  a  friend  of  mine,  a  most  cultivated 
gentleman — several  times  a  millionaire — is  known 


Americana  I09 

to  have  juggled  with  the  funds  of  an  insurance  com 
pany,  and  to  have  pocketed,  with  a  few  of  his 
friends,  hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollars  of  the 
policy  holders'  money. 

"What  did  they  do  to  him?"  inquired  Lord 
Aylesden. 

'.'Nothing  whatever.  Moreover,  it  was  also  dis 
covered,  in  the  course  of  an  investigation,  that  he 
had  robbed  the  stockholders  of  a  railroad  of  several 
millions  of  dollars." 

"Fancy!" 

"Outrageous!"  exclaimed  Octavia. 

"That,"  said  Lord  Aylesden,  "is  what  Southworth 
and  Hatfield  did  over  here." 

"Yes,  but  Southworth  is  in  prison,  and  Hatfield 
will  never  return  to  England ;  whereas  my  American 
holds  his  head  as  high  as  ever  and  his  social  position 
has  not  suffered." 

"Nice  country,"  said  the  Earl. 

"Just  fancy!" 

"But,  in  that  country,"  inquired  Octavia,  "are 
there  no  laws  for  such  crimes  ?  Is  there  no  punish 
ment?" 

"Yes,  punishment  for  the  minnows  but  not  for  the 
sharks.  Nobody  cares,  however,  so  long  as  busi 
ness  is  good." 

Octavia  made  no  further  comment,  but  looked  in 
pensive  reverie  through  the  great  window  of  the 
dining  room,  out  over  the  smooth,  green  level  of 
Drumworth  Park  where  a  herd  of  deer  were  graz- 


no  Pandora's   Box 

ing.  At  this  point  came  another  of  those  restful, 
nerve  restoring  silences  which  occur  at  British 
meals. 

Later  on,  the  repast  finished,  the  four  persons  en 
tered  the  long  drawing-room.  Here  they  paused 
before  a  large  photograph  of  the  King.  This  por 
trait  had  been  recently  presented  by  His  Majesty  to 
Octavia's  father.  Framed  in  silver,  it  rested  in  a 
prominent  position  upon  one  of  the  tables.  The 
King  in  this  picture  was  in  full  regalia.  Much  im 
pressed  by  this  portrait,  the  guest  congratulated  his 
host  upon  being  the  recipient  of  so  personal  a  gift. 

"But  do  you  not  think,"  and  Octavia's  tone  im 
plied  an  amiable  regret,  "that  it  loses  something  of 
its  dignity  by  all  those  trinkets  across  the  breast?" 

Auntie  George  looked  more  closely  at  the  portrait, 
"What  trinkets,  Octavia?" 

"Those  medals.  They  seem  to  cheapen  the  ef 
fect." 

"Why,  dear  child!"  exclaimed  Auntie  George, 
looking  still  more  closely,  "those,  I  think,  are  the 
orders  of  the  Garter,  the  Bath,  St.  Patrick  and  the 
Imperial  order  of  the  Crown  of  India.  The  others 
are  the  highest  and  most  exclusive  foreign  orders 
presented  by  other  monarchs." 

"I  know  they  are,  but  monarchs  are  in  the  habit 
of  exchanging  those  things  just  as  they  would  ex 
change  visiting  cards.  And  they  signify  even  less." 

"Octavia!" 

"Now  if  King  George,"  Octavia  went  on  in  the 


Americana  II]C 

same  tone  of  amiable  regret,  "should  wear  a  string 
of  visiting  cards  or  empty  watchcases  across  his 
front  it  would  bear  the  same  relation  to  his  own 
personal  exploits." 

Autie  George's  eyes  opened  wider  and  her  lips 
parted.  Had  her  niece  cursed  the  Church  of  Eng 
land  the  shock  could  hardly  have  been  more  severe. 
Lord  Aylesden  frowned.  But  Mr.  Rutherton,  with 
elevated  eyebrows,  regarded  the  speaker  in  amused 
astonishment — and  admiration.  More  color  had 
come  into  Octavia's  cheeks  as  she  spoke  these  irrev 
erent  words,  and  it  was  evident  that  in  the  eyes  of 
the  guest,  whatever  his  own  opinion  of  the  King's 
medals,  the  Lady  Octavia  was  a  fascinating  study. 

Auntie  George  could  only  exclaim  in  a  whisper— 
and  the  whisper  was  hollow  and  sepulchral,  "How 
can  you,  Octavia !" 

"That  is  certainly  a  fresh  view,"  said  Mr.  Ruther 
ton.  "I  never  thought  of  it  before.  We  must  ad 
mit  those  medals  are  not,  in  the  strictest  sense,  re 
wards  of  merit,  or  records  of  achievement." 

With  a  smile  of  recognition  toward  Mr.  Ruther 
ton,  such  as  a  Queen  of  Paradise  might  bestow  upon 
any  deserving  angel,  Octavia  remarked,  "But  if  such 
ornaments  can  afford  any  satisfaction  to  our  sov 
ereign  I  am  sure  it  is  not  for  us  to  object." 

She  turned  away,  still  with  the  charming — but 
impersonal — smile,  and  moved  gracefully  through 
the  drawing  room  toward  the  terrace.  The  others 
followed. 


112  Pandora's   Box 

While  Rutherton  was  enjoying  one  of  his  host's 
choicest  cigars  upon  the  terrace,  Octavia,  by  a 
careless  question,  again  started  the  guest  upon  the 
subject  in  which  she  had  so  suddenly  taken  an  in 
terest.  And  he  depicted,  in  few  words,  the  inevitable 
conditions  in  a  new  and  purely  commercial  country 
where  the  people  were,  of  necessity,  imitative  in 
social  matters  and  backward  in  intellectual  develop 
ment,  yet  happy  and  self  satisfied.  And  in  so  doing 
he  innocently  furnished  Lady  Octavia  with  ammu 
nition  for  her  attack  upon  the  Yankee  invader. 


IX 


A  FATHER  IS  REASSURED 

WHEN  tea  was  served  that  afternoon  in  the 
library — a  spacious,  wide  windowed  room 
with  a  heavily  timbered  ceiling — Lady 
Georgiana,  sitting  alone  with  her  nephew,  spoke  of 
the  surprising  change  in  Octavia's  appearance  during 
the  last  day  or  two — the  new  color  in  her  cheeks, 
less  weariness  of  manner  with  a  livelier  and  more 
cheerful  expression. 

"Yes,  I  have  noticed  it.  She  looks  better  than 
she  has  for  a  year.  More  animation.  More  like 
her  old  self.  How  do  you  account  for  it?" 

"I  really  can't  say.  I  thought  at  lunch  today  it 
might  be  Mr.  Rutherton's  presence,  but  I  remem 
bered  that  yesterday  also  she  had  a  better  color." 

"Glad  of  it.  Hope  it  isn't  temporary.  I  have  al 
ways  said,  you  know,  that  the  poor  child  needs 
change  and  stirring  up." 

"But  she  won't  take  it.  She  always  refuses  to  go 
away." 

"Yes,  worse  luck.  Even  refuses  to  go  to  town 
for  the  season.  But  just  at  present  she  is  certainly 
less  languid.  Takes  more  interest  in  things.  May 
be  the  good  weather." 

Into  Auntie  George's  face,  which,  with  its  perfect 


H4  Pandora's   Box 

features,  should  by  rights  have  been  beautiful — but 
was  not — came  an  expression  of  emphatic  denial. 
"This  new  color  in  her  cheeks  is  too  sudden.  Good 
weather  does  not  act  with  such  rapidity.  The  change 
has  all  come  within  a  day  or  two." 

Lord  Aylesden  leaned  forward  and  spoke  in  a 
lower  tone.  "Do  you  think  there's  a  fighting  chance 
of  her  taking  either  Hepsford  or  Rutherton?  She 
would  be  happy  with  either.  No  better  men  in  Eng 
land.  It  would  be  horrible  if  she  should  fall  in  love 
with  some  impecunious  chap." 

With  a  slow,  wise  nod  Lady  Georgiana  regarded 
her  nephew.     "Octavia  does  not  suspect  it  herself, 
but  I  have  taken  excellent  care  that  she  meets  no 
undesirable   suitors.      Her   men    friends   are    few. 
There  is  nobody  in  the  field  to  interest  her." 
"You  are  sure  of  that?" 
"Absolutely." 

Into  the  father's  face  came  a  look  of  relief,  im 
mediately  followed,  however,  by  one  of  doubt.  He 
laid  down  his  cup,  arose  and  began  to  move  about 
the  room.  At  last,  standing  before  Auntie  George 
and  looking  down  with  a  serious  face,  he  spoke  in  a 
subdued  voice. 

"I  must  say  that  it  seemed  to  me  at  lunch  that  she 
did  not  behave  at  all  like  a — er — like  a  woman  in 
love,  don't  you  know — or  even  over  much  impressed 
by  Rutherton  himself." 

Lady  Georgiana  closed  her  eyes,  opened  them 
slowly,  and  looked  up  with  a  faint  smile ;  such  as  a 


A   Father   is   Reassured          IJ5 

forgiving  mother  might  bestow  upon  an  idiot  child. 

"You  men,  Robert,  are  really  very  dull  where 
women  are  concerned.  Did  you  not  observe  her  ani 
mation  at  moments  ?  How  attentively,  almost  eagerly 
she  listened?  You  surely  observed  the  contrast  to 
her  usual  indifference  when  similar  subjects  are  dis 
cussed  ?" 

"Yes,  but  that  is  just  what  I  fail  to  comprehend. 
I  do  not  believe  that  a  dainty,  sensitive,  romantic 
creature  like  Octavia  can  be  entranced  by  such  a 
subject.  Americans!  Gad!  Do  you  think  it  was 
Rutherton's  picture  of  the  vulgarity  of  that  half 
baked  people  and  their  screaming  women  to  which 
she  listened  with  transfigured  face,  with  glistening 
eyes  and  changing  color?  No.  I  cannot  believe  it." 

With  a  patient  smile  Auntie  George  again  slowly 
closed  and  opened  her  eyes.  "But  if  they  were  an 
interesting  people  you  would  believe  it  and  under 
stand  it?" 

"Naturally." 

"Very  well,  then.  Pray  how  do  you  account  for 
her  sudden  interest  in  such  an  uncongenial  subject?" 

"Just  the  thing  that  bothered  me.  And  it  must 
have  bored  her." 

"Listen,  Robert.  It  was  merely  the  cleverest  way 
of  entertaining  Rutherton.  He  had  been  to  America, 
so  she  drew  him  out  and  made  him  talk.  The  subtlest 
form  of  compliment.  His  vanity  was  fed.  He  en 
joyed  every  moment  of  his  visit." 

"Yes,  I  saw  that — but — er — I  can't  explain  just 


n6  Pandora's   Box 

what  I  mean.  To  me,  don't  you  know,  she  seemed 
more  interested  in  Americans  than  in  Rutherton." 
"Coquetry.  Just  a  woman's  coquetry.  And  it  is 
better,  perhaps,  that  men  are  as  blind  as  they  are. 
What  conceivable  reason,  what  other  motive  could 
our  Octavia  have  for  listening  to  an  essay  on  those 
impossible  people?" 

"I  suppose  you  are  right." 

"And  if  you  will  recall  the  conversation,  Robert, 
you  will  see  that  Rutherton  was  telling  her  nothing 
new.  The  inhabitants  of  the  United  States  are  not  a 
newly  discovered  race — their  sudden  wealth,  their 
voices,  their  assurance  and  vulgarity  are  known  to 
everybody.  And  yet  she  listened,  apparently,  with 
eager  interest." 

"Yes,  by  Jove !  And  with  a  flush  on  her  cheeks 
and  eyes  that  glistened!  She  fooled  me,  too!" 

After  a  silence,  however,  he  added :  "But  hang  it, 
Auntie  George,  there's  this  about  it,  and  it — er — it 

er discouraged  me.     Several  times,  and  when 

Rutherton  was  talking  his  best,  Octavia  just  looked 
out  the  window  in  an  absent-minded  way— a  kind  of 
ecstatic  reverie  that  was  not  a  bit  flattering  to  him, 

you  know." 

"Listen,  Robert.  A  girl— and  especially  a  girl 
that  all  men  desire — must  not  fall  into  a  man's  arms 
as  soon  as  he  beckons,  must  she?" 

"Of  course  not." 

"Had  she  hung  on  every  word  of  Rutherton's  to 
day  and  drunk  him  in  with  thirsty  eyes  he  might 
despise  a  victory  so  cheaply  won.  He  would  feel, 


A   Father  is   Reassured       IJ7 

and  with  reason,  that  she  was  his  for  the  asking — 
even  before  the  asking." 

"Possibly." 

"But  if  he  goes  away  with  the  idea  that  Octavia 
has  other  thoughts  than  of  him,  and  with  some  un 
certainty  as  to  the  amount  of  interest  he  inspires, 
that  very  uncertainty  will  create  a  healthful  anxi 
ety,  touch  his  pride,  enliven  his  ambition  and  stir 
him  to  greater  effort." 

"You  are  quite  right.     Quite  right." 

"At  the  present  moment  he  is  not  at  all  sure 
whether  she  cares  for  him  or  not;  whether  it  was 
himself  or  his  subject  that  interested  her." 

"Yes.     You  are  right." 

"But  are  you  quite  sure,  Robert,  that  Rutherton 
wants  to  marry  Octavia  ?" 

After  a  glance  toward  the  door,  Lord  Aylesden 
lowered  his  voice.  "I  am.  He  has  been  talking  to 
me  about  it.  He  is  dead  in  love  with  her.  Clean 
gone." 

Lady  Georgiana's  face  brightened.  "Then  I  can 
assure  you  there  is  not  the  slightest  cause  for  anxi 
ety.  We  may  consider  it  un  fait  accompli." 

"Rough  on  Hepsford!" 

Then,  with  another  glance  toward  the  door :  "Do 
all  you  possibly  can  to  hasten  matters  without  excit 
ing  her  suspicions.  You  know  the  financial  situation. 
You  realize  how  much  depends  on  it." 

"I  shall  do  my  best." 

"Then  the  country  is  safe." 

And  he  lit  a  cigar. 


TWO  TEMPERS 

THE  smile  was  lukewarm  with  which  Octavia 
returned  Ethan  Lovejoy's   friendly  "good 
morning"  as  she  entered  the  Old  Hall  on  the 
following  day.  Her  own  intentions  were  not  amia 
ble.    Moreover,  her  plan  of  battle  had  been  carefully 
rehearsed. 

Should  this  American  prove  to  have  no  patriot 
ism,  then  her  efforts  would  avail  nothing  as  her  main 
object  was  to  make  him  angry.  And  she  realized 
the  improbability  of  a  man  of  his  intelligence  having 
any  serious  love  or  admiration  for  so  lamentable  a 
country  as  America,  even  if  that  country  were  his 

own. 

Baseborn  arose  from  a  recumbent  position  in  a  bar 
of  sunshine  and  advanced  to  meet  her.  He  cocked 
his  head  to  one  side,  pricked  up  his  ears,  and,  with 
his  big  brown  eyes  fixed  earnestly  on  her  face, 
wagged  his  tail  in  a  hearty  welcome.  The  tail  thus 
wagged  by  Baseborn  was  a  strange  affair.  Too  long 
for  style,  too  short  for  nature,  it  took  an  unexpected 
bend — twist  or  deviation — about  the  middle  of  its 
present  length.  This  aberration  of  the  main  line, 
accentuated  by  a  local  growth  of  parti-colored  hair, 

118 


Two  Tempers 

seemed  to  signify  a  former  calamity;  as  if  the  tail 
had  been  shortened  by  some  hostile  force,  an  earth 
quake  or  a  stroke  of  lightning — possibly  both. 

Ignoring  Baseborn,  Octavia  approached  the  draw 
ings.  Whereupon  the  architect  took  a  little  bunch  of 
Johnny- jump-ups  from  a  tumbler  of  water  that 
stood  on  his  table.  Unfolding  a  clean  handker 
chief  he  wiped  the  stem  of  the  flowers,  then  with 
a  ceremonious  bow,  presented  them. 

"Will  the  goddess  of  flowers,  and  of  sunshine  in 
dark  places,  accept  this  offering  from  an  ordinary 
mortal?" 

She  took  it,  and  acknowledged  the  gift  with  a 
pleasanter  smile  than  was  in  her  morning's  program. 

It  was  then  she  wavered,  for  a  moment,  in  her 
purpose.  A  slight  flush,  almost  of  shame,  came  into 
her  cheeks,  for  surely  it  was  ungracious,  in  return 
for  this  gift,  to  disparage  the  country  of  the  giver, 
to  ridicule  the  manners  and  morals  of  his  com 
patriots. 

When  once  resolved  upon  a  deed  of  which  we  are 
secretly  ashamed,  it  is  disconcerting  to  have  the  vic 
tim  anticipate  the  blow  by  an  act  of  kindness.  Her 
hesitation,  however,  was  brief.  She  braced  herself 
for  the  attack  by  recalling  his  facetious  and  dispar 
aging  comments  on  her  own  ancestors,  his  ridicule 
of  her  own  people,  his  exasperating  contempt  for 
her  own  class  and  its  traditions. 

After  the  usual  inspection  of  his  work,  with  the 
usual  display  of  interest  in  its  progress,  she  tossed 


120  Pandora's   Box 

upon  his  drawing  the  little  photograph  of  herself. 
"Your  prophecy  was  correct.  I  am  ashamed  of  the 
manner  in  which  I  acquired  the  picture." 

He  picked  it  up  and  held  it  toward  her.  "I  also  am 
ashamed  of  not  giving  it  to  you  when  you  asked  for 
it.  Please  take  it." 

For  an  instant  she  hesitated.  Then  she  took  the 
picture,  thanked  him  briefly,  and  moved  away  to 
ward  her  usual  seat  in  the  window.  It  was  evident, 
even  to  Baseborn,  that  in  the  atmosphere  this  morn 
ing  there  was  a  new  element — something  foreign, 
mysterious  and  threatening.  The  tail  stopped  wag 
ging.  With  head  at  an  angle  he  studied  her  as  if 
trying  to  guess  the  riddle. 

Octavia  now  discovered  that  to  introduce  her  sub 
ject  in  the  natural  course  of  conversation,  and  with 
out  arousing  suspicion  of  her  intent,  seemed  almost 
impossible.  But  Fortune,  in  an  unexpected  way, 
came  promptly  to  her  aid. 

On  the  seat  beside  her  lay  a  pocket  kodak  of 
peculiar  fashion.  She  took  it  up  and  examined  it. 
"What  a  nice  little  camera!  I  never  saw  one  just 
like  it!" 

"Yes,  it  is  very  convenient.    It  came  from  Amer 


ica." 


"Was  it  made  in  the  United  States?" 
"Yes." 

"Impossible." 

"Why  impossible?"     And   in  mild   surprise  he 
looked  up  from  his  work. 


Two  Tempers 

"Because  it  is  so  well  made." 

"You  mean — they  never  do  things  well  in  Amer 
ica?" 

'That  is  what  I  meant.  But  even  an  American 
might  do  honest  work  perhaps  if  he  saw  immediate 
pecuniary  profit." 

"Are  Americans  so  bad  as  that?" 

"They  certainly  have  achieved  that  reputation, 
poor  things !  Personally  I  have  met  few  specimens. 
But  I  have  found  them  crude,  ill  bred,  self  satisfied 
and  hideously  commercial.  Nobody  seems  to  re 
spect  them.  But  while  mistrusted  here  in  Europe 
they  possess,  I  am  told,  a  value  from  the  money 
they  bring.  But  of  course  you  know  all  that  as  well 
as  I." 

Here  the  lady  paused;  not  for  his  reply,  as  she 
had  no  intention  of  allowing  him  to  proclaim  his 
nationality  and  so  spoil  the  fun.  She  noticed  with 
pleasure  an  involuntary  contraction  of  his  eyebrows, 
and  a  compressing  of  the  lips.  But  he  hesitated  be 
fore  replying,  and  she  admired  his  self  control.  She 
knew  how  angry  she  herself  would  be  had  a  for 
eigner  so  spoken  of  her  own  people. 

Slowly,  in  a  constrained  voice,  and  without  look 
ing  up  from  his  work,  he  began: 
"As  I  myself  am— " 

"Yes,  of  course  you  are  aware  of  all  that.  But 
while  those  Yankees  are  personally  offensive,  unre 
liable,  tricky,  astonishingly  smart  and  without  busi 
ness  honor,  they  do  try  hard,  I  understand,  poor 


122  Pandora's   Box 

things,  to  make  up  in  extravagance  what  they  lack  in 
good  breeding.     Their  sudden,   unmerited  wealth, 
their  whole  condition,  in  fact,  socially  and  morally, 
suggests  a  stupendous,  gilded  mushroom." 
"Yes,  but—" 

"Think  of  living  in  a  land  where  clever  inventions 
take  the  place  of  art,  literature  and  manners!  Where 
they  joke  at  crime,  and  where  wholesale  robbery 
is  never  punished;  where  thieving  politicians  and 
tricky  financiers  are  held  in  high  respect." 
"Just  pause  one  second,  if  you  please.     I — " 
But  she  did  not  pause.    After  a  seemingly  careless 
glance  in  his  direction — for  he  had  straightened  up 
and  faced  about — she  continued  serenely,  as  if  his 
voice  had  not  reached  her: 

"And  you  may  think  it  impossible,  but  Yankee 
women  are  even  more  vulgar  than  the  men;  more 
nervous,  with  higher,  thinner,  louder  voices,  and  al- 
wayS — always — always  talking.  And  the  wealthiest 
women  gladly  sell  themselves  for  any  sort  of  a 
title." 

At  last  there  was  a  pause.  Octavia,  at  the  mo 
ment,  could  think  of  nothing  more.  She  had— 
roughly  at  least — covered  the  ground.  Had  he  a 
spark  of  loyalty  or  patriotism  he  must  be  consumed 
with  anger.  But  as  he  made  no  immediate  reply  she 
allowed  her  eyes  to  move  in  his  direction.  He  was 
at  work.  The  frown  had  left  his  brow;  the  flush 
had  departed  from  his  cheeks.  He  seemed  to  have 
recovered  his  usual— and  exasperating — placidity  of 
mind. 


Two  Tempers  I23 

Without  looking  up  he  inquired,  gently : 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  an  American?" 

Octavia,  with  a  slight  frown,  turned  her  head 
toward  the  open  window,  and  inquired,  indifferently : 

"Are  you  an  American?" 

"No.  I  am  partly  Ethiopian,  partly  Jew,  but 
mostly  Chinese  and  Hottentot." 

Gently,  also,  she  replied  : 

"I  might  have  guessed  it  from  some  of  the  opin 
ions  you  have  expressed.  But  you  are  a  very  clever 
person." 

"Do  you  really  think  so?" 

"No." 

The  draughtsman,  going  on  with  his  work,  began 
to  whistle,  gently,  a  slow  and  dirge-like  air.  This 
lasted  but  a  moment.  "You  must  remember,"  he 
said,  "that  even  if  I  do  seem  clever  to  you— 

"But  you  do  not." 

" — it  is  only  by  contrast.  A  dull  American  might 
appear  to  an  English  person  exceedingly  bright." 

Then,  with  the  obvious  purpose  of  drowning  her 
reply,  he  whistled  louder,  beating  time  upon  the  table 
with  his  triangle.  The  lady  frowned.  But,  as  he  kept 
his  eyes  upon  the  drawing  she  gave  up  the  frown — 
which  was  clearly  wasted — and  leaned  back  with  an 
air  of  resignation.  Then  a  silence  came,  and  he  said, 
without  looking  up,  "How  do  you  like  my  manners?" 

"Unusually  good — for  an  American."  And  in 
silent  disdain  she  turned  her  face  toward  the  win 
dow. 


124  Pandora's   Box 

While  in  this  position  she  heard  him  climb  up  and 
stand  upon  his  chair.  He  was  humming  in  the  lowest 
of  tones  an  unfamiliar  air;  something  solemn  and 
slow.  Then,  in  the  gentlest  of  voices  he  said,  from 
his  high  perch  : 

"Of  course,  American  men  have  not  the  nimble 
wit,  the  ready  perception  nor  the  quick  sympathy  and 
charm  of  manner  for  which  the  Briton  is  so  justly 
famous  and  so  universally  beloved.  Neither  has 
he  that  indifference  to  money  which  is,  perhaps, 
the  most  obtrusive  characteristic  in  this  unselfish 
island." 

Octavia's  figure  stiffened,  but  her  face  was  still 
toward  the  window. 

She  heard  him  say, 

"There  is,  of  course,  some  resemblance  between 
Englishmen  and  Americans,  yet  there  is  a  striking 
difference — as  British  soldiers  and  sailors  have  dis 
covered  on  sundry  occasions." 

"Indeed!" 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  fight  at  Lexington,  the 
Yorktown  affair  or  the  battle  of  New  Orleans?" 

"Never." 

Ethan  Lovejoy  sighed.  "Well,  I  am  not  surprised. 
They  are  events  on  which  the  British  historian 
would  hardly  be  apt  to  linger." 

Octavia  answered  serenely: 

"Matters  not  worth  recording,  for  a  serious  his 
torian,  might  be  of  huge  importance  to  some  far 
away,  ridiculous  little  colony." 


Two  Tempers  I25 

'That's  a  good  shot,"  replied  the  victim,  and  he 
climbed  down  and  went  on  with  his  drawing. 

"Of  course  you  will  admit,"  he  said,  "the  gen 
erally  accepted  fact  that  while  one  American  equals 
only  two  English  soldiers,  one  Yankee,  in  a  sea 
fight,  is  a  match  for  three  and  one-half  English 
sailors." 

At  these  words  Octavia,  who  was  the  staunchest 
of  patriots,  thrilled  with  a  hot  anger.  But  she  re 
plied,  quietly: 

"It  might  possibly  be  in  better  taste  and  show  a 
different  kind  of  courage — but  un-American  per 
haps — if  you  made  such  speeches  to  the  men  of  this 
country  instead  of  to  the  women." 

"You  are  right.  I  retract  and  apologize.  How 
can  I  atone?  Allow  me  to  confess  that  American 
men  are  a  lying,  thieving,  cowardly  lot." 

"I  did  not  say  they  are  cowards." 

"You  forgot  to  mention  it." 

Although  his  tone  was  conciliatory,  Octavia  had 
the  gratification  of  seeing  a  distinct  effort  to  main 
tain  a  smiling  front.  This  promise  of  rictory  en 
couraged  her  to  remark,  in  a  soothing  tone : 

"I  have  no  doubt  the  men  have  courage — of  a 
certain  kind.  It  is  chiefly  the  women  I  object  to, 
although  their  intentions  may  be  good.  It  is  pos 
sibly  not  their  own  fault,  poor  things,  that  they  are 
noisy,  pretentious  and  so  depressingly  vulgar." 

After  this  speech  there  was  a  silence,  or  rather  a 
stillness — the  unnatural  stillness  before  a  summer 
tempest  when  the  atmosphere,  overladen  with  elec- 


126  Pandora's    Box 

tricity,  precedes  the  final,  climacteric  crash.  Slowly 
and  calmly,  but  in  a  constrained  voice,  he  replied : 

"I  might  repeat  a  rude  remark  made  by  an  ill 
mannered  American — for  they  are  all  ill  mannered 
you  know — " 

"How  can  they  be  otherwise?" 

" — to  a  tactful  Briton  who  was  very  considerate 
of  others'  feelings — for  how  can  they  be  other 
wise?" 

Octavia's  cheeks  tingled,  but  she  merely  drummed 
with  her  fingers  upon  the  old  stone  window  sill. 

"This  Yankee  admitted — mind  you,  he  admitted 
— that  there  is  about  as  much  resemblance  between 
the  women  of  the  two  countries  as  between  peaches 
and  potatoes." 

Octavia  straightened  up.  Her  chin  rose  and  she 
turned  her  eyes,  in  hot  anger,  upon  the  speaker. 
For  the  briefest  moment  she  looked  into  the  famil 
iar  grey  eyes  and  she  felt — mingling  with  her  in 
dignation — SL  certain  pleasure  in  the  discovery  that 
the  owner  of  those  eyes,  although  he  returned  her 
look  with  a  smile,  was  also  angry  and  was  controll 
ing  himself  with  a  mighty  effort. 

Prompted  by  this  knowledge — and  by  a  keen  de 
sire  to  accomplish  her  purpose — the  abasement  of 
his  exasperating,  almost  triumphant  serenity — she 
tossed  the  Johnny- jump-ups  through  the  open  win 
dow,  saying: 

"Do  not  pick  any  more  of  those  flowers.  The 
owner  of  the  castle  might  object." 


Two   Tempers  I27 

She  read  in  his  eyes  that  she  had  succeeded.  It 
was  the  look  that  might  have  come  had  he  been 
struck  in  the  face.  For  an  instant  they  regarded 
each  other,  he  evidently  taken  by  surprise,  humili 
ated,  wrathful,  but  struggling  to  conceal  his  feel 
ings.  His  lips  tightened,  but  he  made  no  imme 
diate  reply.  Raising  a  hand  under  his  blouse  he 
took  from  some  inner  pocket  a  shilling;  and  he 
tossed  it  out  the  window  through  which  his  flowers 
had  just  departed. 

'That/'  he  said,  "is  your  gift  to  me.  It  should 
follow  mine  to  you." 

This  action  had  no  meaning  to  Octavia.  Sur 
prised,  but  too  disdainful  to  ask  an  explanation,  she 
moved  haughtily  toward  the  door. 

"You  paid  me,"  he  added,  "the  regular  fare  the 
other  day  for  rowing  you  across  the  ferry,  and  yon 
gave  me  an  extra  sixpence  for  myself.  That  was, 
the  shilling." 

She  stopped,  turned  about  and,  for  a  short  mo 
ment,  regarded  him  with  a  new  expression.  When 
she  spoke  it  was  in  a  lower  tone,  and  with  her  chin 
again  in  the  air. 

"Then  you  knew — " 

"Yes.  I  knew.  And  I  have  known  all  along  that 
you  are  not  the  gardener's  daughter." 

This  reply — the  unexpected  knowledge  that  she 
was  the  deceived  and  he  the  deceiver — kindled  in 
Octavia  a  more  serious  indignation.  She  was,  for 
the  moment,  the  spoiled  child  who  must  not  be 


128  Pandora's    Box 

thwarted  or  opposed.    With  the  sense  of  defeat,  of 
outraged  pride,  with  the  shame  of  being  so  easily 
tricked,  came  mortification  at  the  undignified  role 
she  had  been  playing  in  this  man's  eyes.     All  the 
pride   in   her   nature,    and   there   was   more   than 
enough,  suddenly  revolted.     She  was  writhing  in 
wardly  under  an  exaggerated  sense  of  degradation, 
£  the  Drumworth  honor  and  her  own  dignity 
in  these    frequent,  unchaperoned    visits  had  been 
dragged  in  the  mire.    With  swift  memories  of  these 
violations  of  propriety  came  the  unbearable  con 
sciousness  of  having  cheapened  herself. 

She  bit  her  lip.  The  color  rushed  to  her  face— a 
flush  of  shame  and  vexation.  And  the  shame  and 
Vexation  were  fine  food  for  anger.  All  extenuating 
details  were  forgotten—or  ignored.  She  obeyed  a 
reprehensible  but  very  human  desire  to  put  her  ad- 
yersary  in  the  wrong  and  herself  in  the  right. 

Surreying  him  with  flashing  eyes,  and  showing 
in  tone  and  manner  all  the  frigidity  she  could  mus 
ter,  she  said,  in  uneven  tones  : 

"And  your  very  free  comments  on  my  ancestors, 
my  family  and  myself  have  been  deliberate,  inten 
tional,  and  with  the  fullest  knowledge  of  whom  you 
were  insulting." 
"Insulting!" 

Paying  no  attention  to  his  protesting  word  she 
merely  murmured,  as  she  turned  haughtily  away  : 
"My  congratulations." 


Two  Tempers  I29 

Then  down  the  hall  and  out  through  the  door 
way  she  passed,  head  erect  and  without  haste. 

Octavia's  anger,  although  alive  and  hot,  was  the 
passing  anger  of  a  maiden  unaccustomed  to  con 
tradiction,  or  to  defeat  in  any  form.  It  was  the 
short  lived,  half  enjoyable  anger  easily  dispelled  by 
a  word  of  apology  or  by  a  sense  of  triumph.  But 
when,  after  descending  the  steps  from  the  Old 
Hall,  she  entered  the  ancient  garden — the  Garden 
of  the  Sleeping  Beauty — there  came  a  sound  to  her 
cars  that  transformed  this  superficial  anger  into 
something  deeper  and  more  lasting.  Through  the 
window,  at  whose  open  casement  she  had  been  sit 
ting  a  moment  ago,  came  the  voice  of  the  draughts 
man  as  she  had  heard  it  on  the  morning  when  it  first 
led  to  their  acquaintance.  He  was  humming,  just 
loud  enough  to  be  heard,  the  march  in  "Aida," 
poorly  rendered,  but  now,  under  present  conditions, 
an  impertinent,  uncalled  for  manifestation  of  indif 
ference,  as  if  the  episode  was  finished — the  incident 
closed:  their  brief  acquaintance  already  forgotten. 
And  this,  a  thoughtless  note  of  victory — or  congrat 
ulation — over  its  happy  ending! 

In  this  heartless  humming  there  was  something 
so  insulting,  so  humiliating  to  Octavia's  dignity,  so 
belittling  to  all  sense  of  her  own  importance,  that 
her  spirit  flamed  with  a  deeper  indignation. 

If  it  be  true  that 

Hell  has  no  fury  like  a  woman  scorned, 


Pandora's   Box 

then  Octavia's  state  of  mind  needs  no  describing. 
Again  the  hot  blood  rushed  to  her  face,  then  left 
it,  leaving  her  whiter  than  before.  Never  in  her 
short  life,  as  the  adored  and  only  child  of  an  ex 
alted  house,  had  she  felt  so  humbled,  so  blind  and 
dumb  with  mortification  and  anger — as  from  a  blow 
in  her  patrician  face. 

And  from  this  draughtsman,  this  unknown  man 
whose  acquaintance  she  had  courted!  And  she,  a 
Drumworth,  had  made  the  advances ! 

For  an  instant  she  closed  her  eyes  and  literally 
choked  with  shame.  As  she  trod  the  cloistered 
arches  she  saw  nothing.  Through  her  own  garden 
and  the  length  of  the  great  terrace  she  moved  with 
dry,  bright  eyes  and  quickened  breath,  but  seeing 
neither  sky  nor  trees  nor  flowers.  Into  her  cheeks 
the  color  came  and  went — and  came,  and  went 
again. 

She  forgot,  in  her  anger,  that  men  in  misery 
have  sung  to  lighten  sorrow. 

At  the  door  of  the  castle  she  was  met  by  Auntie 
George,  in  a  state  of  nervous  excitement.  This 
also  was  unobserved  by  the  niece. 

"O,  Octavia !  I  was  just  going  to  send  for  you. 
The  King  is  coming!  He  stops  for  lunch  on  his 
way  to  town." 

The  next  instant  Auntie  George,  with  wide  open 
eyes  and  parted  lips,  took  a  backward  step  as  she 
received  Octavia's  reply : 


Two  Tempers  131 

"I  don't  care  a  button  for  the  King!" 
And  Auntie  George  did  not  fully  recover  herself 
before  Octavia  had  flown  up  the  grand  staircase, 
rushed   into  her  own  chamber  and   slammed   the 
door  with  a  resounding  bang. 


XI 

A   CHANGE   OF    MIND 

DURING    the    twenty    years    of    Lady    Oc- 
tavia's  life  her  relations  with  other  people 
had  seldom  existed  on  a  purely  democratic 
basis — on    personal    merit    without    prejudice    or 
favor. 

Indulged  from  infancy  in  every  wish,  adored  by 
her  family,  treated  as  a  divinity  by  humbler  habi 
tants  of  the  castle  and  the  village,  eagerly  sought 
by  youths  of  her  own  class,  it  was  small  wonder 
that  the  give-and-take  speech  of  Ethan  Love  joy 
should  come  to  her  as  a  shock.  It  seemed  almost 
unbelievable.  But  her  subsequent  reflections  brought 
more  of  pained  surprise  than  of  serious  anger.  Her 
own  good  sense  was  now  telling  her  that  success  in 
the  role  of  a  gardener's  daughter  demanded,  at 
moments,  sudden  mental  readjustments  for  which 
she  was  not  prepared  by  any  past  experience.  Never 
theless,  out  of  respect  to  her  birth  and  quality,  to 
the  ordinary  conventionalities  of  life  and  to  her 
dignity  as  a  woman  she  resolved  to  make  no  further 
visits  to  this  draughtsman.  Already  she  had  gone 
too  far. 

132 


A   Change   of  Mind          J33 

As  usual,  however,  she  visited  her  garden  the 
next  morning,  and,  as  usual,  began  to  work  there 
in.  The  work  was  interesting,  for  she  loved  her 
flowers.  But  the  care  of  flowers,  just  now,  was 
not  absorbing.  Possibly  horticulture,  as  a  regu 
lar  pursuit,  was  less  diverting  than  architecture. 
She  recognized,  of  course,  that  this  want  of  interest 
was  due  to  her  own  state  of  mind.  Certainly  she 
was  restless.  Her  labors  in  the  garden  were  brief. 
Returning  to  the  castle  she  busied  herself  with 
other  matters.  And  she  found,  whatever  the  occu 
pation,  that  the  amazingly  impertinent  words  of 
the  draughtsman  came  persistently  to  her  mind,  and 
above  all  other  words,  "peaches  and  potatoes."  But 
more  unbearable  than  any  words  was  the  recollec 
tion — which  she  tried  in  vain  to  put  behind  her — 
of  his  song  of  indifference — or  relief — after  she  had 
left  him.  With  every  recollection  of  it  came  a  flush 
of  anger.  And  the  recollections  were  frequent. 

She  fully  realized  how  great  would  be  her  fall  in 
Auntie  George's  esteem  should  that  rigorous  lady 
ever  learn  of  this  affair.  And  Octavia  recalled  this 
aunt's  unspeakable  contempt  for  a  relative  of  theirs 
who  had  accepted  the  attentions — she  had  not  mar 
ried,  but  merely  accepted  the  attentions — of  a  man 
of  obscure  family.  His  was  some  mortifying  occu 
pation,  not  unlike,  perhaps,  that  of  an  architect.  He 
was  a  good  man,  but  i:i  no  way  related  or  connected 
with  any  family  of  position.  So  far  as  concerned 
Auntie  George  his  individual  character — under  such 

'  '•V^. 


X34  Pandora's   Box 

conditions — mattered  little.  He  might  be  an  im 
becile  or  the  wisest  of  his  race.  Thug,  thief  or  saint, 
his  proper  place  was  in  a  lower  world.  Such  "per 
sons"  bore  the  same  relation  to  "nice  people"  as 
crawling  creatures  of  the  mud  to  birds  of  paradise 
in  the  clean  air  above.  And  Octavia  turned  hot  and 
cold  when  she  recalled  the  manner  in  which  the 
Duchess  of  Linsmere  had  once  commented  on  the 
clandestine  meetings  of  two  otherwise  reputable 
persons. 

"Clandestine  meetings !" 

Yes,  surely  her  own  meetings  with  this  draughts 
man  were  "clandestine."  "Clandestine"  was  evi 
dently  equivalent  in  such  affairs  to  vicious,  immoral 
and  compromising.  And  what  would  her  father 
think  of  these  clandestine  meetings  with  an  utter 
stranger?  She  was  astounded,  now,  at  her  own 
want  of  pride.  Inexpressible  was  her  gratitude  that 
this  disgraceful  episode  was  her  own  secret,  and  a 
thing  of  the  past. 

"Clandestine!" 

And  again  she  shuddered  at  the  word. 

Then,  while  in  this  valley  of  shame  and  repent 
ance,  she  made  a  splendid  effort  to  believe  the  worst 
of  the  American.  And  she  succeeded — partially. 

So  severe  was  her 'self  criticism,  so  profound  her 
repentance  and  so  frequent  her  moments  of  gloomy 
meditation,  that  at  lunch  Auntie  George  inquired, 
with  some  anxiety,  if  she  had  a  headache.  No,  she 
had  no  headache ;  she  felt  perfectly  well ;  a  little  dull 


A   Change   of  Mind          135 

perhaps,  and  needing  exercise.     She  would  walk  to 
the  village  in  the  afternoon. 

The  walk  along  the  river's  bank  from  Drumworth 
Castle  to  the  village  was  a  pleasant  little  journey. 
Octavia,  that  afternoon,  invented  among  other 
things  an  errand  at  the  library.  This  library,  a 
picturesque  affair  of  Tudor  design,  had  been  given 
by  her  great-grandfather  to  the  townspeople. 

The  librarian,  a  tall,  sharp-faced  spinster  of  com 
placent  manners,  was  the  sole  relic  of  a  once  wor 
shipful  family;  for  which  reason  she  had  been  se 
lected  by  Lady  Georgiana.  Possessing  neither  tact, 
memory,  administrative  ability  nor  business  sense, 
she  was,  of  course,  not  just  the  person  for  the 
place.  But  to  Lady  Georgiana  education  and  liter 
ature  were  frothy  trifles  compared  with  noble  birth. 
However,  certain  compensations  existed,  as  the  lady, 
in  turn,  sincerely  believed  the  Drumworth  family  to 
be  of  divine  origin. 

While  Octavia  and  this  futile  librarian  were  dis 
cussing  the  purchase  of  certain  books,  they  heard 
an  unwonted  commotion  in  the  usually  peaceful 
street.  As  the  commotion  rapidly  increased  they 
moved  to  the  window.  There  they  understood,  at 
once,  the  meaning  of  the  gathering  crowd  and  the 
excited  voices. 

The  library  stood  in  the  very  center  of  the  village 
where  the  main  street  widened  out  into  a  kind  of 
open  square,  with  an  ancient  stone  watering  trough 


136  Pandora's    Box 

in  the  center.  Directly  opposite  the  library,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  this  little  square,  stood  an  old,  four 
storied  structure.  From  its  lower  windows,  at  the 
present  moment,  came  clouds  of  smoke,  not  large 
in  volume,  but  lurid  and  ominous.  Octavia  hastened 
from  the  room  and  stood  upon  the  library  steps, 
the  complacent  librarian  at  her  side.  From  these 
steps,  a  few  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sidewalk, 
she  commanded  a  perfect  view  of  the  scene  that 
followed.  And  it  was  a  scene  she  was  not  to  for 
get.  Certain  villagers,  male  and  female,  who  had 
already  clustered  about  the  doorway,  deferentially 
saluted  her,  and  moved  down  to  the  lower  step. 
The  flames  had  already  gained  dangerous  headway 
before  the  primitive  fire  extinguisher  of  the  village 
could  arrive.  The  apothecary  and  haberdasher 
who  occupied  the  two  shops  on  the  lower  floor 
were  hastily  removing  their  most  valued  articles. 
Lodgers  in  the  upper  floors,  realizing  their  peril, 
were  either  fleeing  or  had  already  fled,  with  such 
property  as  could  be  saved. 

The  absence  of  the  chief  of  the  unprofessional 
fire  brigade — he  being  away  in  Taunton  for  the 
day — left  his  well  meaning  but  undisciplined  asso 
ciates  with  no  directing  head.  The  result  was  a 
scene  of  uncertainty  and  confusion  in  front  of  the 
burning  building.  Many  voices  were  heard,  and 
with  much  advice;  but  there  was  no  concerted  ac 
tion.  The  stream  of  water  from  the  feverish  en 
gine  was  directed  with  nervous  haste  first  in  one 


A   Change  of  Mind          137 

place,  then  another,  but  with  little  discouragement 
to  the  flames.  Eager  helpers  pushed  in  among  the 
firemen.  Those  nominally  in  authority  tried  vainly 
to  bring  order  out  of  this  increasing  chaos. 

On  one  side  of  the  burning  building  was  a  gar 
den;  on  the  other,  with  only  a  narrow  alley  be 
tween,  stood  the  village  inn.  Should  the  inn  take 
fire  several  other  structures,  close  beside  and  around 
it,  would  surely  go.  So  rapidly  and  so  easily  were 
the  flames  devouring  the  interior  of  the  building 
now  ablaze — all  the  more  combustible  from  age — 
that  the  inn  seemed  doomed.  Octavia,  in  silent  dis 
tress,  stood  watching  this  scene  of  vain  activity. 
She  loved  her  village,  and  above  all  its  ancient  build 
ings.  This  sudden  calamity,  this  threatened  de 
struction  of  so  much  that  she  had  known  from 
childhood,  filled  her  with  acutest  sorrow.  And  with 
this  sorrow  came  a  sense  of  anger  with  the  incom 
petence  of  those  persons  in  control.  But  as  a  wo 
man,  she  could  only  stand  with  other  women,  in 
helpless  terror,  and  look  on. 

While  thus  absorbed,  deaf  to  the  voices  about — 
and  to  the  comments  of  the  elderly  spinster  at  her 
side — she  noticed,  casually,  a  tall  figure  in  grey 
clothes  approach  a  group  of  agitated  firemen,  hold 
their  attention  by  his  words,  point  upward  to  the 
flames  now  eating  through  the  roof,  then  to  the 
upper  story  of  the  inn,  alongside.  She  also  no 
ticed,  a  moment  later,  that  the  men  were  following 
his  suggestions.  Moreover,  she  saw  the  deputy  in 


138  Pandora's    Box 

charge — the  hardware  merchant  of  the  village — 
turn  to  this  stranger  for  further  counsel.  Looking 
more  carefully  at  this  man  in  grey  she  recognized 
her  surreptitious  acquaintance  of  the  baronial  hall, 
— the  architect,  Ethan  Love  joy. 

And  Octavia  realized — together  with  many  others 
among  the  spectators — that  as  she  watched  him, 
hope  revived.  Calmly  and  without  apparent  haste, 
and  with  no  undue  assumption  of  authority,  he 
moved  here  and  there,  directing,  among  other 
things,  the  stream  of  water  away  from  the  doomed 
building  to  the  roof  and  walls  of  the  threatened 
inn.  The  two  inadequate  ladders  he  placed  in  bet 
ter  positions.  A  few  men  he  detailed  to  keep  back 
the  crowd — all  quietly  done,  and  with  the  easy 
command  which,  to  certain  persons,  comes  natu 
rally  in  crises.  He  was  acting,  efficiently,  as  head 
of  the  fire  department  and  as  chief  of  police.  His 
suggestions  were  gladly  received  and  promptly  ex 
ecuted.  Even  the  crowd  of  spectators  had  become 
quieter.  They  had  fallen  back,  leaving  a  larger 
space  for  the  firemen.  And  they  spoke  in  lower 
voices. 

From  this  quieter  mass  of  people — intently  watch 
ing  a  man  astride  the  ridge  pole  of  the  inn  throwing 
water  upon  its  roof — suddenly  a  cry  went  up,  sharp, 
piercing,  in  a  child's  voice. 

"Oh!  Sally!  Oh!  Oh!" 

It  was  a  startling  cry.  To  some  it  was  ludicrous ; 
and  they  laughed.  But  a  second  later  there  fell 


A   Change   of  Mind          I39 

upon  the  crowd  a  silence.  Eyes,  moving  from  the 
inn  to  the  burning  building,  beheld  a  woman  at  one 
of  the  windows  of  the  highest  floor,  beckoning  for 
help.  She  leaned  far  out  the  window  to  escape 
the  smoke  and  heat  behind.  A  murmur,  a  gasp  of 
horror  when  a  name  was  spoken — hardly  more  than 
a  whisper — swept  over  the  crowd,  as  a  ripple  on  a 
lake. 

"Sally  Pindar!" 

And  again  came  the  shrill  voice  of  the  child,  a 
wild  cry  of  grief,  of  anger  and  protest — a  despair 
ing  call  for  help.  And  this  boy  of  ten  ran  out  from 
the  crowd  to  the  man  in  grey,  and  pulled  fiercely  at 
his  sleeve. 

"That's  my  sister!  Save  her!  Oh!  Save  her 
quick!" 

Octavia  saw  Ethan  Love  joy  look  down  into  the 
upturned  face,  then  up  toward  the  victim  in  the 
fated  building.  Gently  he  shook  off  the  boy.  Then 
with  a  few  strides  of  his  long  legs  he  reached  one 
of  the  ladders  resting  against  the  inn.  With  swift 
directions  to  other  men,  and  with  his  own  hands,  he 
spliced  the  ladders  together — making  one  long  one 
out  of  the  two.  Quickly  placed  in  position  this  long 
ladder  came  to  Sally  Pindar's  window,  easily  within 
her  reach.  And  Sally  Pindar,  faint  from  fright  and 
shock,  clutched  it  with  quivering  fingers.  But  her 
strength  was  gone.  She  lacked  the  physical  power 
to  climb  out  upon  it.  After  an  hysterical  effort  she 
collapsed,  and  lay  unconscious  across  the  window 


14°  Pandora's    Box 

sill.  Octavia  uttered  a  wail  of  horror;  of  unutter 
able,  helpless  pity.  For  it  seemed  the  will  of  God 
that  this  poor  girl — whom  she  had  known  from 
childhood — should  sink  into  the  raging  furnace  be 
hind  her. 

About  to  turn  away  from  a  tragedy  she  had  not 
the  heart  to  witness,  she  saw  Ethan  Love  joy  throw 
off  his  coat  and  waistcoat,  and  grip  the  ladder  with 
both  hands.  Either  to  test  its  strength  or  to  ad 
just  it  more  firmly  in  position,  he  shook  it.  For  it 
seemed  an  uncertain  affair,  even  under  favorable 
conditions,  these  two  ladders  tied  hastily  together. 

Then  he  started  up.  So  silent  was  the  crowd  that 
no  sound  was  heard  except  the  roar  and  crackling 
of  the  flames.  And  as  he  climbed  on  and  up, 
through  smoke  and  a  shower  of  sparks,  Octavia  no 
ticed  in  the  sunlight — as  we  are  impressed  by  trivial 
things  at  tragic  moments — the  striking  whiteness 
of  his  shirt.  And  so  acutely  sensitive  were  her 
nerves  with  the  promised  rescue  of  Sally  Pindar, 
that  she  could  have  laughed  aloud. 

When  Ethan  Love  joy,  in  his  ascent,  reached  that 
point  where  the  two  ladders  were  spliced  together 
they  sagged  and  yielded  in  an  ominous  way.  But 
on  and  up  he  climbed.  At  times  he  was  almost 
hidden  from  view,  for  this  ladder,  to  reach  the 
dormer  above,  was  of  necessity  placed  directly  in 
front  of  the  lower  windows.  And  through  these 
windows,  where  glass  was  already  broken,  smoke 
poured  in  fitful  clouds,  dense,  somber,  lit  up  at 


A  Change  of  Mind          I4I 

times  by  tongues  of  flame.  But  he  reached  the  top. 
There,  with  his  feet  upon  the  second  rung  he 
straightened  up,  slowly,  not  to  lose  his  balance,  and 
took  a  firm  grip  on  the  old  stone  cornice.  This 
cornice,  fortunately,  projected  but  a  few  inches 
from  the  wall.  Bending  far  over,  with  his  weight 
upon  the  cornice,  he  put  an  arm  about  the  fainting 
woman  and  slowly  lifted  her  from  the  window. 
And  it  was  clearly  a  feat  that  required  not  only  the 
coolest  head  but  extraordinary  physical  strength. 
Then  it  was  that  Octavia  held  her  breath.  And  on 
the  crowd  beneath  lay  a  deathlike  silence.  For  it 
seemed  impossible  that  a  man  with  such  a  weight 
could  balance  himself,  and  cling  close  enough  to 
the  wall  to  regain  his  hold  upon  the  ladder.  But 
this  man  did  it.  And  as  he  did  it,  slowly,  with  ex 
ceeding  caution,  but  absolutely  without  fear,  excla 
mations,  involuntary  and  half  suppressed,  went  up 
from  below. 

Calmly  with  his  burden  he  began  the  descent. 
Again  the  quaking  ladders  bent  and  swayed,  far 
more  than  when  bearing  but  a  single  person.  More, 
and  yet  more  they  yielded  as  he  approached  that 
portion  where  the  two  were  joined.  But  on  and 
downward  he  continued.  Octavia  wondered  if  he 
knew  his  peril.  And  she  realized  that  whether  he 
did  or  did  not  it  now  could  make  no  difference.  It 
was  his  only  course. 

As  his  foot  came  cautiously,  but  with  his  whole 
weight,  upon  one  of  the  lower  rungs  of  the  upper 


142  Pandora's   Box 

ladder  the  dreaded  thing  occurred.  The  ladder  gave 
way  beneath  him.  Down  and  in  it  bent,  toward  the 
building,  first  slowly,  then  with  a  sudden  movement. 
Ethan  Lovejoy  with  his  burden  went  crashing 
against  the  window,  to  what  seemed  an  awful  death. 
With  a  cry  of  horror  from  the  gazing  crowd  came  a 
.sound  of  shivering  glass.  And  out  through  the 
broken  casement  poured  sheets  of  pent  up  flame. 

On  the  library  steps,  near  Octavia,  a  woman 
fainted. 

Octavia  herself,  with  a  cry  of  terror,  clutched  the 
arm  of  the  librarian  beside  her.  With  the  other 
hand  she  covered  her  eyes. 

Cries  of  astonishment  caused  her  to  raise  her 
head.  As  a  cloud  of  smoke  cleared  away,  for  an 
instant,  she  saw  Ethan  Lovejoy  hanging  with  one 
arm  over  the  sill  of  the  window,  his  toes  just  reach 
ing  the  projecting  cap  of  the  window  below.  And 
he  was  not  alone.  His  other  arm  still  held,  securely, 
the  fainting  woman.  From  the  crowd  below  came 
a  sound — a  great  gasp — of  awe,  of  amazement — an 
involuntary  cheer.  From  Octavia  came  a  whispered 
prayer.  A  lump  was  in  her  throat.  Verily,  this 
man  was  faithful  to  his  trust ! 

As  he  maintained  himself  thus,  by  one  arm,  with 
scarcely  a  bearing  for  the  tips  of  his  toes,  a  floor 
within  the  window  fell,  and  new  sheets  of  flame 
shot  out  and  up.  Enveloped  in  smoke  and  sparks, 
still  he  hung.  And  still  he  held  the  woman.  But 
no  human  lungs  could  long  survive  such  an  atmos- 


A   Change  of  Mind          *43 

phere.  Men  below,  meantime,  had  placed  one  of  the 
shorter  ladders  against  the  wall.  And  Ethan  Love- 
joy,  his  brain  unclouded,  his  nerves  unshaken,  his 
strength  unfailing,  descended  slowly,  with  Sally 
Pindar  in  his  arms,  again  to  earth. 

Waiting  hands  took  the  unconscious  figure  from 
his  arms.  He  himself  stood  for  an  instant  near  the 
foot  of  the  ladder,  pressing  his  hands  against  his 
eyes.  Two  men  led  him  farther  from  the  burning 
walls.  A  moment  later,  however,  he  was  moving 
about,  directing  the  firemen  as  if  nothing  of  im 
portance  had  occurred.  Octavia  found  relief  for 
overstrung  nerves  in  listening  to  the  comments  of 
the  more  placid  librarian  beside  her.  And  she 
found  relief,  to  her  own  amazement,  in  commenting 
upon  Ethan  Lovejoy's  shirt,  whose  whiteness  had 
been  so  conspicuous  as  he  ascended  the  ladder ;  now, 
alas !  grimy  and  disreputable,  one  sleeve  hanging  in 
rags  from  the  shoulder. 

Less  than  an  hour  later,  when  the  safety  of  the 
inn  had  been  assured,  Octavia  was  walking  home 
ward.  Although  with  head  erect  and  with  the  light 
step  of  youth,  there  had  come  in  her  eyes  a  more 
serious,  almost  solemn  expression.  She  acknowl 
edged,  in  an  absent  manner,  the  deferential  saluta 
tions  of  the  various  persons  she  encountered. 

Of  heroic  deeds  she  had  often  read.  In  history 
and  in  fiction  she  had  found  inspiring  records.  Many 
tales  were  told  wherein  heroes  had  offered  their 
lives  for  others;  in  battle  and  in  peace;  on  water 


M4  Pandora's   Box 

and  on  land.  These  things  had  moved  her,  and  she 
had  regretted,  in  a  girlish  way,  that  she  was  not 
a  man.  But  those  heroes,  however  splendid,  were 
impersonal  figures.  They  were  names. 

Today,  however,  the  man  was  real  and  her  own 
eyes  had  seen  the  deed.  She  had  seen  him,  in  the 
ordinary  light  of  an  English  day,  freely  and  with 
no  thought  of  himself,  offer  his  life  to  save  a  most 
obscure  and  unimportant  woman.  With  his  phys 
ical  strength  he  had  shown  a  courage  that  had  filled 
her  with  a  kind  of  awe.  This  feeling  grew,  the 
more  she  thought  of  it.  For  today  there  had  been 
no  music  for  incentive;  no  brilliant  audience,  and 
no  applause.  But  in  case  of  failure  there  was  mu 
tilation,  or  death ;  and  no  reward  in  case  of  victory. 
He  had  looked  for  no  reward.  His  recompense  was 
within  himself;  a  recompense  so  immeasurably  finer 
and  higher  than  all  human  applause,  that  as  Octavia 
walked  homeward  along  the  river's  bank,  there  was 
moisture  in  her  eyes. 

And  in  her  soul  there  was  a  new  light. 


m 


VERILY,   THIS    MAN    WAS    FAITHFUL   TO    HIS   TRUST—' 


XII 

IN    THE    OLD    GARDEN 

IN  the  darkness  of  Octavia's  chamber,  that  night, 
the  courage  of  her  own  convictions,  as  she  lay 
awake,  grew  stronger  with  the  silent  hours. 
Also,  some  of  her  previous  opinions  were  modi 
fied.  Her  more  youthful  heroes  became  victims  to 
a  different  standard.  With  the  newer  heroes  of  her 
imagination  there  was  less  of  the  military — fewer 
uniforms  and  music;  less  shouting  and  powder.  And 
ever  prominent  in  these  scenes  moved  the  figure  of 
Ethan  Lovejoy,  calm,  silent  and  self- forgetting — 
and  of  surprising  strength.  The  more  she  reflected 
upon  the  scene  at  the  fire  the  more  deeply  she 
regretted  the  contemptible  quarrel  of  the  morning. 
And  more  ashamed  of  it  she  became.  It  was  she 
who  began  it;  she  who  had  deliberately,  in  cold 
blood,  with  premeditated  malice,  goaded  the  unwill 
ing  victim  to  the  fray.  What  man  with  a  spark 
of  patriotism  could  have  remained  silent  in  face  of 
her  revilings?  He  could  have  but  one  opinion  of 
her  behavior;  of  her  insulting,  malicious  words. 
Looking  back  upon  the  conflict,  she  appreciated,  now, 
his  self  control  beneath  her  preliminary  taunts ;  his 

145 


Pandora's   Box 

obvious  struggle  to  refrain  from  retaliation.  Never 
theless,  despite  all  efforts,  she  could  not  forget  the 
remark  about  peaches  and  potatoes.  Although  un 
able  to  forget  it  she  found,  since  the  rescue  of  Sally 
Pindar,  that  it  was  easily  forgiven.  Such  a  rescue 
was  ample  atonement  for  even  ^blacker  crime  than 
defending  his  own  country.  It  should,  in  her  opin 
ion,  reinstate  the  vilest  sinner.  More  difficult  to 
forgive  was  his  deceit  and  his  lack  of  consideration 
in  treating  her  as  a  gardener's  daughter.  She  was 
fair  enough  to  admit,  however,  that  her  own  deceit 
in  assuming  the  role  was  partial  justification  for  the 
offense. 

So,  when  she  started  the  next  morning — osten 
sibly  for  her  own  garden — in  the  gingham  apron 
with  scissors  and  Hower  basket,  there  was  not  only 
forgiveness  in  her  heart  but  some  anxiety  as  to  his 
opinion  of  herself.  She  was  ready  to  make  fullest 
apologies  for  her  words  of  yesterday. 

From  the  old  archway  Octavia  stepped  into  the 
garden,  then  halted  and  stood  in  silence.  The  Gar 
den  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty  this  morning  truly  de 
served  its  name.  Although  alive,  joyous  and  all 
aquiver  in  the  May  sunshine,  it  seemed  the  partial 
awakening  of  forgotten  things,  of  drowsy  memories 
long  asleep.,  The  birds  that  twittered  about  the 
untrimmed  box  and  overgrown,  shapeless  yew  trees 
seemed  impertinent  intruders.  Neglected  flowers 
gave  spots  of  color  here  and  there,  still  holding  their 
heads  above  the  ever  crowding  weeds.  And  the  pink 


In   the   Old   Garden       .    *47 

roses  against  the  grey  walls  of  the  Old  Hall  opened 
their  petals  to  the  morning  sun  more  slowly  than 
other  roses — still  dreaming,  perhaps. 

Along  the  central  path,  amid  this  wild  luxuriance 
of  neglect,  strode  Ethan  Love  joy,  one  hand  behind 
him,  the  other  agrunst  his  chest.  To  and  fro  he 
marched,  as  far  as  the  basin  of  the  silent  fountain, 
then  back  to  the  statue  of  the  dancing  cupid,  his  eyes 
to  the  ground,  unaware  of  Octavia's  presence. 
When  he  turned  about  and  walked  away  the  great 
initials  E.  L.  stood  out  with  startling  clearness  upon 
the  ridiculous  blouse,  now,  in  the  bright  sunlight, 
more  absurd  than  ever.  But  there  was  nothing 
comic  or  humorous  in  the  man  himself.  He  was  the 
moving  image  of  dejection.  He  wore  no  hat.  He 
was  indifferent  to  the  glare  of  any  sun — unconscious 
of  the  world  about  him. 

Octavia  stood  silent  until  he  again  approached 
the  dancing  statue. 

"Good  morning." 

He  stopped  and  raised  his  head.  All  fears  re 
garding  his  resentment  at  her  slurs  upon  his  coun 
try  and  its  people  were  at  once  dispelled.  Into  his 
face,  after  the  briefest  instant  of  surprise,  came  a 
look  of  pleasure;  of  boyish  delight.  With  a  joyful 
exclamation — as  he  read  the  look  in  her  own  face — 
ke  advanced  with  a  hand  outstretched. 

"Oh,  good,  good!    You  have  come!" 

With  a  joy  so  real  and  so  unrestrained  that  it 
became  contagious,  he  grasped  the  hand  she  involun- 


Pandora's   Box 

tarily  held  forth.  This  joy,  sincere  and  uncontrolled, 
with  which  he  looked  into  her  eyes,  still  holding  her 
hand,  caused  Octavia  to  feel,  for  a  moment,  that 
never  in  her  life  had  any  one  been  so  glad  to  see 
her.  It  brought  the  color  to  her  cheeks. 

Very  young  when  her  mother  died,  Octavia  had 
missed  much  of  that  affection  so  precious  to  every 
human  being.  Her  father,  although  a  loving  parent, 
was  not  demonstrative.  And  while  Auntie  George 
was  dutifully  affectionate — sufficient  for  all  practi 
cal  purposes — she  did  not  believe  in  "petting"  chil 
dren.  Moreover,  as  Octavia  belonged  to  a  people 
who  instinctively  repress  all  joy  dispensing  emotions 
— and  to  a  class  who  consider  such  repression  "good 
form" —  her  share  of  love  expressed  was  less  than 
she  herself  had  realized.  So,  like  an  unexpected 
sunbeam  in  some  long  shaded  corner  of  her  own 
castle  came  to  Octavia  this  hearty  greeting,  this  un 
qualified  joy  at  her  presence,  and  in  her  forgiveness. 
Gently  withdrawing  her  hand  she  murmured  some 
thing  about  herself  being  the  offender. 

"Never,  never!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  are  an 
angel  of  rescue,  straight  from  heaven.  Why,  I  had 
no  hope  of  being  forgiven." 

And  as  she  looked  into  his  grey  eyes,  always 
mysteriously  familiar — as  if  friends  of  childhood- 
she  sought  again,  but  vainly,  as  usual,  for  aid  from 
her  own  memory.  And  as  usual  in  this  connection, 
her  own  memory  seemed  wilfully  and  maliciously  to 
desert  her  when  on  the  very  edge  of  enlightenment. 


In  the   Old   Garden  *49 

As  he  took  a  backward  step,  and  stood  regarding 
her,  she  noticed  that  his  right  hand  was  bandaged. 

"You  have  hurt  your  hand." 

"Merely  physical.  Nothing  compared  with  my 
spiritual  damage."  Then,  with  a  smile,  "If  you  will 
promise  not  to  laugh  or  despise  me  in  any  way  I 
will  tell  you  something." 

"That  is  asking  a  great  deal.     However,  I  prom 


ise." 


"Well,  I  have  not  slept  a  wink  since  that  woeful 
interview  yesterday  morning." 

"Then  you  certainly  took  it  seriously.  But  how 
did  you  hurt  your  hand?" 

"Burned  a  little.  Nothing  serious.  Merely  over 
done  on  one  side." 

"How?" 

"At  a  fire  yesterday  in  the  village.  Didn't  you 
know  that  the  old  building  opposite  the  library  was  a 
thing  of  the  past?" 

Now  Octavia  wished  to  hear  of  the  exploit  from 
his  own  lips;  a  partly  mischievous  curiosity  as  to 
what  extent — being  an  American — he  would  make 
himself  appear  to  the  best  advantage.  So,  with  a 
slight  frown  of  impatience,  she  demanded: 

"Yes,  yes.  I  know  that;  but  how,  in  what  way 
did  you  burn  your  hand?" 

"By  holding  it  too  long  against  a  hot  window- 
;sill." 

"Why  did  you  do  it?" 

"My  other  hand  was  busy,  and  if  I  had  let  go  I 


150  Pandora's   Box 

should  have  fallen  to  the  ground,  twenty  or  thirty 
feet.    And  that  would  have  been  foolisher  yet." 

"Then  your  other  hand  is  not  hurt?" 

"Oh,  no !  chat  hand  was  having  a  very  comfortable 
time." 

"Holding  Sally  Pindar." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows.  "So  you  heard  about 
our — our  unconventional  goings  on?" 

"I  was  there.     I  saw  it  all." 

"I  am  thankful  I  did  not  see  you." 

"Am  I  so  terrifying?" 

"You  were  yesterday.  I  was  so  ashamed  of  that 
scene  in  the  morning  I  might  have  fled  if  I  had  seen 
you,  and  let  Miss  Pindar  and  the  whole  town  burn." 

"Please  be  serious." 

"I  am.  Is  not  a  man  serious  when  his  remorse  is 
so  bitter  that  he  promenades  all  night  in  front  of  a 
castle?" 

"Absurd!" 

"But  it  is  true." 

Now,  Octavia  was  enjoying  another  mild  sur 
prise.  She  had  anticipated,  their  relative  positions 
being  acknowledged,  a  perceptible  change  in  his  at 
titude.  Not  the  customary  deference,  perhaps, 
which  in  this  unique  acquaintance  she  neither  ex 
pected  nor  desired,  but  some  recognition,  however 
faint,  of  the  consideration  shown  by  ordinary  peo 
ple,  such  as  draughtsmen,  to  the  first  ladies  of  the 
land.  It  was  clear,  however,  that  this  American  was 
not  embarrassed  by  class  distinctions.  His  democ- 


In   the   Old   Garden 

racy  was  sincere.  His  present  manner  toward  her 
showed  no  change.  There  was,  as  usual,  the  clearest 
manifestation  of  a  very  real — almost  boyish — pleas 
ure  in  her  company.  A  more  respectful,  intelligent 
and  thoroughly  enjoyable  appreciation  of  her  society 
she  could  not  expect  upon  this  earth.  And  the 
knowledge  that  it  was  inspired  by  herself  alone  came 
almost  as  a  new  experience.  This  knowledge  af 
forded  her  a  gratification — a  quality  of  happiness — 
which,  although  discreetly  veiled,  \vas  no  less  real 
than  his  own. 

For  a  moment  she  looked  away,  beyond  the  ivy 
covered  balustrade  of  the  old  garden  across  the  fields 
to  the  distant  village.  "I  did  not  realize  at  the  time 
how  dreadfully,  unbearably  hot  that  window  sill 
must  have  been." 

"No  reason  why  you  should.  Let's  think  of  some 
thing  cooler.  The  treatment  I  deserve,  for  instance. 
As  for  my  brutal  speech  of  yesterday  regard- 
ing—" 

"If  you  had  dropped  Sally  Pindar,"  she  inter 
rupted,  "you  could  have  used  both  hands  and  not 
burnt  this  one." 

"Drop  Sally  Pindar!  Had  I  done  that  I  should 
never  again  have  faced  you,  or  anybody  else. 
Heavens!  I  am  bad  enough  now!  Really,  truly, 
seriously,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  grateful,  how  happy 
I  am  that  you  have  forgiven  that  business  of  yester 
day  morning." 

He  spoke  earnestly.     As  they  looked  into  each 


152  Pandora's    Box 

other's  eyes  she  smiled.  "To  tell  you  the  truth," 
she  said,  "although  the  chief  offender  I  was  quite 
angry  and  unforgiving  until  I  saw  you  at  that  burn 
ing  building.  It  was  splendid;  the  bravest  deed  I 
ever  saw — or  ever  shall  see,  probably.  You  are  a 
real  hero,  Mr.  Love  joy.  And  whatever  you  may  do, 
however  bad  you  are  hereafter,  that  shall  not  be  for 
gotten." 

"Those  are  pleasant  words  to  hear,  but — but  I 
er — you  are  putting  me  on  too  high  a  pedestal.  The 
role  of  a  hero  is  hard  to  maintain.  We  men  are 
fearfully  human,  you  know." 

"You  are  up  there  now,  and  must  not  come  down 
until  I  tell  you.  When  you  had  climbed  to  the  mid 
dle  of  that  ladder,  and  it  threatened  to  give  way,  did 
you  believe  it  would  bear  the  double  weight  of  you 
and  Sally  Pindar?" 

Partially  turning  his  face  away,  he  studied  her 
from  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  And  in  doing  so  he 
seemed — in  his  shapeless  blouse — an  overgrown 
schoolboy,  caught  in  an  evil  deed,  inventing  some 
convincing  falsehood  to  clear  himself.  After  a  mo 
ment's  hesitation  he  asked: 

"What  is  the  Glory  of  the  Morning  driving  at?" 

"Answer  the  question." 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Answer  the  question." 

"Well,  in  the  first  place  I  enjoy  climbing  ladders; 
most  boys  do.  Secondly,  I  am  fond  of  Miss  Pin 
dar.  Thirdly,  she  has  been  very  kind  to  me.  I  told 


In  the  Old  Garden          *53 

her  that  if  I  could  ever  be  of  service  to  her,  in  any 
way  whatever,  she  might  count  on  me." 

Octavia  drew  a  long  breath,  looked  away  over 
the  distant  meadows,  but  made  no  comment.  Turn 
ing  into  one  of  the  neglected  paths  of  the  garden  she 
moved  slowly  along  between  the  high  rows  of  un- 
trimmed  box,  he  close  behind.  And  she  wondered, 
incidentally,  in  what  manner  Sally  Pindar  had  been 
kind  to  him. 

"I  have  noticed/'  he  said,  as  they  walked  along, 
"that  when  women  place  us  on  pedestals  our  fall  is 
painful.  I  would  much  prefer  to  begin  now,  if  I 
may,  and  climb  down  by  easy  stages.  It  will  be  far 
better  for  me  in  the  end." 

For  reply  she  merely  smiled,  and  shook  her  head. 

"Then  for  my  own  protection,"  he  added,  "and 
for  a  more  leisurely  descent,  allow  me  to  state  that 
the  American  police  are  waiting  for  me.  A  lifelong 
friend  trusted  me  with  his  money  and  I  ran  away 
with  it.  I  also  took  his  wife." 

The  lady's  face  was  turned  away,  toward  the 
meadows  to  the  south,  so  the  effect  of  these  remarks 
was  not  visible. 

"Moreover,  being  a  Yankee,  I  chew  tobacco, 
smoke  bad  cigars  in  church  and  always  eat  with  my 
knife." 

Still  receiving  no  reply  from  the  averted  face, 
he  continued :  "I  ought  also  to  tell  you  that  I  have 
spent  a  long  term  in  prison — being  an  anarchist — • 
for  trying  to  blow  up  Windsor  Castle  and  the  House 
of  Lords." 


154  Pandora's    Box 

If  a  smile  had  been  on  her  face  it  was  repressed. 
With  a  slight  frown  she  turned  and  looked  up  at 
him.  "And  I  am  learning  that  a  man  can  shine  at 
fires  and  yet  be  disappointing  in  his  conversation. 
Do  you  take  nothing  seriously  ?  Do  Americans  joke 
about  everything?" 

"Everything  jokeable.    Why  not?" 

"I  see  I  must  take  you  down  from  the  pedestal. 
You  are  not  sufficiently  serious  minded  for  a  real 
hero.  You  are  too  fond  of  nonsense." 

"Thanks.  Now  I  feel  safer.  You  may  not  know 
— being  a  woman — that  good  nonsense  purifies  the 
mind,  fortifies  philosophy  and  keeps  the  spirit 
young." 

"I  confess  I  have  often  suspected  it." 

"You  know  a  sensible  man  can  be  very  silly  at 
times  if  he  really  puts  his  mind  on  it." 

"So  I  see." 

They  had  now  reached  the  balustrade  that  en 
closed  the  two  open  sides  of  the  garden,  the  other 
two  sides,  north  and  west,  being  enclosed  by  the 
high  gray  walls  of  the  castle.  Bending  forward, 
Octavia  leaned  upon  this  old  stone  balustrade,  look 
ing  down  upon  the  fields  below.  Ethan  Love  joy 
followed  her  example.  Together  they  surveyed  the 
sunny  landscape.  And  the  landscape,  like  all  else 
this  June  morning,  was  entrancing.  Shoulder  to 
shoulder,  in  silence,  they  breathed  that  celestial  air 
that  warms  the  heart  and  awakens  feelings  that  are 
more  than  friendly. 


XIII 

AMONG  THE  ROSES 

AFTER  a  long  silence — a  somewhat  intimate 
silence — they  spoke  in  lower  tones.  Pos 
sibly  the  atmosphere  of  the  ancient  garden 
may  have  worked  its  charm.  Whatever  the  cause, 
both  Ethan  Love  joy  and  Lady  Octavia  were  in  the 
mood  for  further  knowledge  of  each  other.  And 
this  knowledge  was  so  easily  acquired!  Not  so 
much  from  bald  statements  of  fact  as  from  a  lively 
but  unuttered  personal  interest.  For  the  conver 
sation  was,  ostensibly  on  impersonal  subjects: 
life,  death  and  astronomy;  literature,  bees,  cook 
ing,  psychic  phenomena,  England  and  America; 
Rome,  exercise,  architecture  and  various  human 
things,  but  with  illustrative  anecdotes  from  the 
speakers'  own  lives.  The  two  adventurers,  in  this 
voyage  of  discovery,  drifted  rapidly  together. 

Ethan  Lovejoy  learned,  among  other  things,  that 
this  girl's  feeling  for  the  old  castle  was  a  deep  and 
serious  affection.  Every  room  and  passage,  every 
tower  and  court,  every  vine  and  flower  upon  its 
historic  walls  was  a  part  of  her  life.  He  also  dis 
covered  that  beneath  the  medievally  aristocratic 

155 


Pandora's   Box 

ideas  of  which  he  now  believed  her  the  irresponsible 
victim,  her  nature  was  simple  and  direct;  and  her 
instincts,  unsuspected  by  herself,  were  surprisingly 
democratic.  Her  exalted  ideas  of  the  glories  of  the 
house  of  Drumworth,  and  of  the  sanctity  of  other 
noble  families,  were  to  him  fantastic;  incomprehen 
sible  almost  in  a  woman  otherwise  so  reasonable 
and  well  poised.  But  these  ideas  were  easily  ex 
plained  by  certain  tales  he  had  heard  in  the  village 
of  her  early  education.  In  this  educational  diet, 
as  administered  by  a  watchful  aunt,  Burke's  Peer 
age  had  been  the  flavoring  substance. 

For  a  long  time  they  talked,  this  morning,  both 
leaning  forward  upon  the  stone  balustrade.  At 
last,  after  a  silent  study  of  her  folded  hands  he 
said: 

"Those  gloves  of  yours  really  look  as  if  you 
worked  in  a  garden." 

"I  do.  Every  morning  I  work  an  hour  or  two. 
The  last  few  days,  however,  I  have  been  wasting 
time  in  your  vicinity.  I  must  reform."  And  she 
straightened  up,  and  took  her  basket. 

"Oh  no !  Please  don't  reform !  These  visits  have 
been  my  inspiration.  You  have  duties  as  the  patron 
saint  of  architecture.  If  you  desert  me  now  the 
restorations  of  the  castle  will  be  a  failure." 

She  smiled  and  gently  shook  her  head,  then 
moved  away,  he  following,  along  the  narrow  path 
between  overgrown  shrubs  and  flowers.  In  her 
quaint  garden  hat  and  blue  gingham  apron,  with  her 


Among  the  Roses  J57 

girlish  figure,  her  sloping  shoulders  and  erect  car 
riage,  she  reminded  him  of  the  women  in  certain 
old  prints  of  an  earlier  generation.  While  absorbed 
in  a  profound  study  of  the  back  of  her  head  and 
neck,  and  the  many  tints  in  her  warm  brown,  sun 
lit  hair,  she  suddenly  stopped  with  a  half  suppressed 
exclamation.  An  arm  was  caught  and  held  by  the 
thorns  of  a  projecting  rose  bush.  And  on  the  arm, 
held  involuntarily  toward  him,  he  saw,  along  the 
white,  smooth  flesh  between  the  old  glove  and  the 
sleeve,  a  scratch.  It  was  a  little  scratch,  neither 
long  nor  wide,  nor  deep  enough  to  bleed. 

"Can  you  loosen  the  sleeve?"  she  asked. 

But  he,  before  loosening  the  sleeve,  placed  his 
bandaged  hand  beneath  her  wrist  for  support,  then 
picked  with  the  good  hand  a  petal  from  one  of  the 
white  roses  of  the  offending  bush.  This  petal  lie 
laid  tenderly  upon  the  small  red  line,  pressing  gently 
with  his  fingers  as  if  upon  a  mortal  wound. 

"A  cruel  gash!"  he  murmured.  "But  doesn't 
that  rose  leaf  feel  nice  and  cool?  It  is  the  court 
plaster  fairies  use,  and  it  cures  everything. 

With  one  of  her  characteristic  movements  when 
either  displeased  or  embarrassed,  she  raised  her 
chin  and  regarded  him  with  lowered  eyelids.  But 
as  she  encountered  his  own  eyes — always  unac 
countably  familiar — a  faint  smile  moved  the  sen 
sitive  lips.  Quickly  he  loosened  the  restraining 
thorns,  and  she  started  on.  At  the  end  of  the  path 
near  the  wall  of  the  castle,  she  halted  and  studied  a 


158  Pandora's    Box 

rose  vine  that  was  clambering,  high  above  their 
heads,  around  the  great  window  of  the  Baronial 
Hall — the  window  in  which  she  had  been  wasting 
time. 

"There  is  a  rose  that  might  truly  sympathize 
with  cruel  gashes.  It  was  planted  by  Anne  Boleyn 
— with  her  own  hands." 

"By  Anne  Boleyn !"  And  in  silence,  obviously  im 
pressed,  he  regarded  the  vine. 

"On  one  of  her  visits  at  Drumworth,  in  June, 
1530,  she  planted  this  rose,  about  a  year  before  her 
marriage.  We  have  an  account  of  it,  written  at  the 
time  in  an  old  diary,  kept  by  one  of  the  family." 

"By  one  of  your  family  ?" 

Octavia  nodded.  "A  great  aunt  of  mine,  in  look 
ing  over  a  journal  kept  by  an  ancestor  who  was  a 
cousin  of  Anne  Boleyn,  came  across  the  reference 
to  planting  the  rose,  telling  just  where  it  was  placed 
and  describing  the  kind  of  rose.  It  came  from 
France." 

For  a  moment  or  two  both  stood  in  silence,  gazing 
up  at  the  vine.  It  had  twined  itself  around  an  old 
balcony,  then  along  projecting  moldings  and  edges 
of  the  great  window. 

"All  the  roses,  unfortunately,  are  out  of  reach," 
and  Octavia  sighed.  "They  are  quite  unusual,  and 
their  perfume  is  exquisite." 

/'Nothing  you  desire  should  be  out  of  reach." 
vln  front  of  them,  against  the  wall,  stood  an  old 
seat  with  a  high  arm  at  each  end,  all  cut  in  stone. 


Among  the  Roses  J59 

Stepping  first  upon  the  seat,  then  upon  one  of  the 
ends,  he  climbed  higher  yet,  seeking  a  foothold  upon 
projecting  moldings.  At  last,  he  reached  slowly 
up  until  his  hand — the  uninjured  hand — grasped 
one  of  the  lower  branches.  This  he  pulled  cautious 
ly  toward  him,  and  secured  a  rose.  It  was  a  hazard 
ous  deed,  Octavia  watching  in  anxious  silence.  Re 
turning  to  earth  he  placed  the  flower  in  her  hand. 
She  thanked  him,  held  it  to  her  nostrils  and  closed 
her  eyes. 

"Tis  a  faint  little  perfume,"  she  murmured;  "but 
very  sweet";  then  returned  it  to  him. 

He  also  inhaled  its  fragrance.  "Yes ;  just  a  mem 
ory  of  its  youth." 

He  studied  it  with  a  sort  of  reverence.  "Its  very 
tints  are  tragic,  aren't  they?  The  crimson  heart, 
then  fading  pink  to  its  whiter  edges.  It  has  not  for 
gotten,  I  think,  the  girl  who  planted  it." 

And  as  he  placed  it  again  in  her  hand  Octavia 
looked  up  at  him  with  a  grateful  smile.  "That  is 
just  what  /  think!  That  is  just  how  I  have  always 
felt  about  these  pale,  sad  roses;  as  if  pity  for  that 
unhappy  woman  had  entered  their  own  pure  souls.5' 

She  moved  slowly  past  him  and  seated  herself 
upon  the  old  stone  bench.  This  bench  stood  back 
a  few  inches  in  a  sort  of  niche,  or  arched  recess,  in 
the  outer  masonry  of  the  old  hall.  As  the  seat  was 
just  about  long  enough  for  two  people,  rather  close 
together,  he  asked: 

"May  I  also  sit — without  crowding?" 


160  Pandora's   Box 

"Yes;  being  a  hero." 

He  leaned  back  and  closed  his  eyes.  "My  Mum- 
sey  used  to  tell  me,  when  I  was  a  little  boy,  that  all 
the  flowers  and  good  animals  had  souls  and  there 
was  a  place  for  them  in  heaven :  but  that  bad  people 
had  no  souls  and  were  far  inferior  to  well  behaved 
animals." 

"And  you  believed  it  ?" 

"Yes  indeed!  And  I  still  believe  it.  There 
would  be  no  charm  for  me  in  any  heaven  if  cer 
tain  dogs  I  have  known  were  not  admitted;  where 
partially  reformed  thieves  and  drunkards  were 
substitutes  for  singing  birds  and  flowers." 

To  this  conception  of  a  hereafter  no  reply  was 
made.  The  lady  seemed  absorbed  in  a  reverie  over 
the  rose  in  her  hand.  Without  lifting  her  eyes  she 
asked:  "Who  is  the  'Mumsey'  you  speak  of— a 


nurse?" 


"My  mother.  I  wish  you  could  meet  her;  but 
she  is  in  America.  You  would  like  her.  She  is 
as  short  as  I  am  tall.  She  has  the  secret  of  per 
petual  youth.  She  is  perfect;  just  perfect.  Not  a 
fault.  I  am  the  worst  thing  she  ever  did." 

"And  I  suppose  she  thinks  you  are  perfect." 

"No.    She  is  too  wise  for  that." 

Running  a  hand  inside  his  blouse  he  drew  forth 
a  letter  from  a  waistcoat  pocket.  "By  the  way, 
speaking  of  Mumsey,  I  heard  from  her  this  morn 
ing  and  there  is  a  mystery.  Perhaps  you  can  solve 
the  riddle." 


Among  the  Roses 

In  the  gentlest  of  tones,  without  looking  up,  Oc- 
tavia  asked:  "Can  the  potato  interpret  the  peach?" 

Slowly  he  shook  his  head.  "So  you  did  not  tell 
the  truth  when  you  said  you  had  forgiven  that  re 
mark."  And  he  folded  the  letter  and  replaced  it  in 
his  pocket. 

As  he  did  so  she  extended  a  protesting  hand.  "I 
am  ashamed  of  myself  for  recalling  it ;  and  I  did  tell 
the  truth.  Please  read  the  letter/' 

As  he  looked  into  her  face,  with  its  look  of  half- 
serious  appeal,  he  could  have  forgiven  anything. 
But  he  frowned,  looked  away,  and  shook  his  head. 
"No,  your  vengeance  is  revolting.  In  my  book  on 
the  British  Isles  I  shall  say  that  you,  like  all  other 
English  women,  never  forgive  an  injury  and  are 
bitterly  vindictive." 

"Oh  no,  I  am  not!"  she  laughed.  "Really  I  am 
not.  Go  on  with  the  letter." 

Still  he  frowned,  solemnly  shook  his  head  and 
looked  over  the  garden. 

"Remember,"  she  went  on,  "you  are  not  perfect 
yourself.  Your  own  mother  knows  it." 

"She  is  prejudiced.  However,  being  an  Ameri 
can,  I  will  set  an  example  of  humility  and  grace;" 
and  he  drew  forth  the  letter.  "This  is  the  riddle." 
Then  reading  from  the  paper  in  his  hand : 

"So  that  statue  of  Pandora  you  mention  is  still  in  the  old 
hall.  And  she  still  holds  the  casket,  I  suppose,  as  if  there, 
might  be  something  in  it  for  you.  Tell  me  if  the  old  stone 
bench  with  the  inscription  is  still  in  the  little  garden  along 
side." 


162  Pandora's   Box 

'That  seems  very  natural,"  said  Octavia.  "I  sec 
no  riddle  in  it.  She  refers  to  that  statue  in  a  cor 
ner  by  the  great  chimney.  But  why  is  it  remarkable 
that  she  should  mention  it?" 

"How  could  she  know  it  was  Pandora?" 

"Visitors  are  often  shown  over  the  castle,  and  she 
might  have  been  told  it  was  Pandora." 

"Yes,  but  I  never  mentioned  Pandora  in  my  let 
ter.  I  did  not  know  of  its  existence  until  she  spoke 
of  it.  And  she  has  never  seen  Drumworth  Castle. 
Listen  to  this,"  and  he  turned  back  the  page  and 
read: 

"Drumworth  is  a  famous  castle  and  must  be  interesting  to 
risit  It  is  one  of  the  grandest  in  all  England." 

Octavia  reflected  a  moment.  "Your  mother  is 
not  frank  with  you." 

"You  mean  she  has  been  here?" 

"It  seems  to  me  she  meant  to  give  you  the  im 
pression  of  not  having  been  here  and  without  telling 
an  untruth.  She  does  not  really  say  she  was  never 
here." 

Ethan  frowned,  and  again  studied  the  letter.  "I 
believe  you  are  right.  And  that  was  very  clever  of 
Mutnsey.  But  what  possible  object  could  she  have 
in  deceiving  me?" 

"No  special  purpose  perhaps,"  Octavia  answered 
with  a  smile,  "except  that  men  being  so  dull  it  is 
often  a  pleasure  to  deceive  them." 


Among  the   Roses  l63 

But  Ethan  Love  joy  was  thoughtful.  "It  is  not 
like  Mumsey." 

"The  writer  of  that  letter/'  said  Octavia,  "is  cer 
tainly  familiar  with  our  Pandora.  There  is  no 
doubt  of  that." 

"None  whatever."  He  folded  the  letter  and  re 
placed  it  in  his  pocket. 

Observing  his  still  serious  face  she  inquired : 

"You  are  not  angry  because  I  suggested  a  doubt 
of  her  sincerity?" 

"Angry?  Never!  I  can  say  to  you  in  truth, 
as  you  have  said  to  me  in  jest :  'Whatever  you  may 
do,  now  or  hereafter,  you  are  forgiven  in  ad 
vance/  " 

Then,  for  a  time  both  sat  in  silence.  In  the  June 
sunshine  the  old  garden,  the  flowers  and  shrubs,  the 
sky,  all  things — even  the  old  gray  stones  of  the 
castle — seemed  warm  and  living.  Gently  through 
the  old  yew  trees  and  the  box  breathed  the  soft  air 
from  the  south,  scarcely  moving  the  flowers  upon 
their  stems — a  soothing  zephyr,  blending  with  the 
hum  of  bees  and  with  the  perfume  of  roses. 

"It  is  really  very  surprising,"  and  Ethan's  voice 
was  dreamy,  "my  unaccountable  feeling  that  the 
present  moment  is  a  repetition  of  some  previous  ex 
perience.  Did  you  ever  have  it?" 

"Yes,  more  than  once." 

"I  am  having  it  now,"  he  murmured.  **I  could 
easily  believe  that  you  and  I  have  sat  together  on 
this  bench  in  years  gone  by."  He  spoke  seriously 


l64  Pandora's   Box 

— with  a  certain  solemnity — and  as  she  turned  to 
ward  him  she  saw  he  had  placed  the  bandaged  hand 
across  his  eyes. 

"Perhaps,"  she  suggested,  "you  have  been  here 
other  years,  and  with  other  gardeners'  daughters." 

"No  such  luck !  Until  five  days  ago  I  never  was  in 
this  part  of  England.  It  may  strike  you  as  very 
silly,"  he  said,  removing  his  hand,  his  eyes  wan 
dering  slowly  over  the  scene  about  them,  "but  the 
feeling  is  so  strong,  the  sensation  so  very  real,  that 
I  surely  must  have  dreamed  it,  imagined  it  or  been 
through  it  in  some  form — or  fancy." 

Octavia  made  no  reply.  She  was  trying  to  re 
member  an  explanation  she  had  once  read  of  this 
not  uncommon  and  gently  disturbing  delusion, 
when  he  continued: 

"I  believe  the  wise  men  account  for  it  as  some 
subconscious  action  of  the  brain  that  bears  no  re 
lation  to  actual  events.  But  that  is  not  quite  satis 
fying." 

"A  spaniel  puppy  of  mine,"  said  Octavia, 
"plunged  into  a  duck  pond  yesterday  and  swam 
about,  never  having  seen  water  before.  He  certain 
ly  was  doing  it  with  a  sense  of  acquaintance.  Other 
wise  he  would  never  have  dared.  Perhaps,"  she 
added  with  a  smile,  "you  have  inherited  from  your 
mother  your  memories  of  this  seat." 

"Possibly.  And  not  only  of  the  seat  but  the  old 
hall  in  there,  too.  More  than  once,  when  you  have 
been  sitting  in  the  window,  I  have  been  startled  by 


Among  the   Roses  I^5 

a  clear  and  vivid  impression  of  repeating  some  past 
experience." 

"Are  you  addicted  to  those  impressions?" 

"No." 

"Then  you  must  be  as  gifted — in  some  directions 
— as  my  spaniel." 

"If  you  care  for  your  spaniel  I  am  grateful  for 
any  resemblance.  But  why  should  not  we  fellows 
—your  spaniel  and  myself — inherit  from  our  par 
ents,  or  from  any  ancestor,  the  impression  of  an 
experience?  Each  event  of  a  life  leaves  its  record 
on  the  brain.  It  is  easy  to  believe  that  those  rec 
ords,  awakened  by  similar  surroundings,  might  pro 
duce  a  seeming  recurrence  of  the  original  event." 

"It  is  interesting — at  least." 

"And  not  half  so  incredible  as  the  positive  knowl 
edge  of  the  water  your  puppy  has  inherited." 

"But  my  puppy's  parents  really  knew  the  water, 
whereas  your  mother  had  no  knowledge  of  Pandora, 
nor  of  this  bench.  Her  bench  had  an  inscription." 

He  stood  up.  "We  are  not  sure  this  one  has  no 
inscription,"  and  he  examined  the  ends.  "Nothing 
there."  Then,  with  a  knee  upon  the  seat  he  drew 
aside  some  of  the  vines  that  covered  the  wall. 

"Here  it  is !"  he  exclaimed.  "Mumsey  was  right !" 

Octavia  also  stood  up,  and  faced  about.  To 
gether  they  began  to  draw  aside  the  vines.  Word 
by  word  the  inscription  was  revealed. 

"Curious  spelling,"  said  Ethan  as  he  loosened 
tendrils  and  cleaned  out  the  letters  with  his  knife. 


166  Pandora's    Box 

"Must  be  mighty  old.  About  Chaucer's  time,  I 
should  think." 

"Here  is  K.O.S.Y.LE."  said  Octavia,  who  was 
also  at  work.  "What  on  earth  can  that  mean  ?" 

"The  next  word  may  help  us,"  and  Ethan  dug 
away  at  the  letters.  "Benche.  Kosyie  Benche." 

"A  cosy  bench,"  said  Octavia. 

"Why,  of  course!  That  accounts  for  its  being 
too  narrow  for  three.  And  here  is  something  that 
'speedeth  trew,'  whatever  that  may  tell  us." 

A  few  moments  later  both  stood  back  and  Ethan 
read  aloud  the  whole  inscription  : 


Tfhw 

* 

M©OTe  speeet     trew 

Octavia,  with  some  color  in  her  cheeks,  took  a 
backward  step. 

He  smiled. 

"The  charm  only  works  when  there  is  a  good, 
round  moon.  It  must  be  perfectly  safe  in  the  day 
time." 

She  made  no  reply. 

"And  as  'trew  lovirs'  sat  on  the  bench,  facing 
east,"  he  continued,  "the  goode  roncle  Moone  rose 
directly  in  front  of  them.  That  early  Drumworth 
who  wrote  the  lines  and  built  the  bench  was  a  wise 
and  skilful  lover.  He  knew  his  business.  Also,  he 
had  a  sense  of  humor;  and,  presumably,  some  ex 
perience." 


Among  the   Roses  167 

After  a  quick  glance  at  her  face  he  turned  again 
to  the  inscription.  'Those  vines  have  grown  up 
since  Mumsey  saw  it." 

"Evidently." 

"Thirty  years  ago,  at  least,  as  she  has  not  been 
in  England  since  I  was  born." 

"Quite  interesting,"  Octavia  answered,  but  with 
out  enthusiasm.  "I  never  knew  it  was  there." 

"Mumsey  was  right — as  usual.  So  my  theory  of 
heredity  holds  good." 

"Yes.  Your  theory  still  holds  good,"  and  she 
turned  away. 

At  that  moment,  from  the  distant  village,  came 
^faintly  to  their  ears  the  slow  striking  of  a  bell. 

"Twelve  o'clock!"  she  exclaimed  with  a  look  of 
surprise.  "How  long  have  I  been  here?" 

"About  twenty  minutes." 

"Twenty  minutes  ?  Two  hours !  They  will  think 
I  am  lost."  And  she  walked  rapidly  away. 

"But  you  have  not  seen  the  drawings.  I  have 
changes  to  show  you." 

"They  must  wait." 

"You  will  come  tomorrow  ?" 

"Perhaps." 

And  in  another  moment  Ethan  Love  joy  stood 
alone  in  the  old  garden. 


XIV 

ANOTHER  VISIT 

OF  all  solitaire  games  the  soonest  learned  is 
self-deception.  The  dullest  mind  can  grasp 
it.  The  wisest  have  ever  enjoyed  it.  We 
all  find  solace  in  its  blandishments.  No  sweeter  sub 
stitute  for  courage,  conscience  and  self  denial  is  yet 
discovered. 

Octavia,  just  at  present,  was  enjoying  it  to  the 
utmost.  She  believed — or  encouraged  the  belief 
that  she  believed — that  these  visits  to  the  Baronial 
Hall  were  of  an  architectural  nature ;  that  her  Amer 
ican  was  simply  an  architect,  and  nothing 
more.  So,  the  next  morning,  while  aware  that 
yesterday's  visit  to  this  draughtsman  was  of  a  dif 
ferent  character  from  its  predecessors,  she  decided 
that  it  was  still  her  duty,  by  cheering  him  in  his  soli 
tude,  to  encourage  him  in  his  work. 

As  she  started  for  her  garden,  wearing  the  faded 
straw  hat  and  the  calico  apron,  her  grandfather,  the 
Earl  of  Drurnworth,  stood  watching  her  from  a 
library  window.  Tall,  erect,  of  athletic  build,  he 
could  easily  be  mistaken — had  you  failed  to  see  his 
face — for  a  man  of  fifty.  His  face,  however,  with 

168 


Another   Visit  l69 

stiff,  white  eyebrows  and  deep  furrows  along  the 
cheeks  and  mouth,  was  less  deceptive.  Barring  the 
mouth  and  jaw  his  features  were  more  than  good; 
they  were  strong,  clean  cut,  of  a  martial  type.  To 
describe  this  mouth  as  "firm"  or  "determined" 
would  give  a  faint  idea  of  its  character.  It  was 
believed  by  various  persons  to  be  the  hardest  mouth 
in  England — or  anywhere  else.  A  slit,  it  seemed, 
across  the  iron  face;  an  uncompromising  line,  des 
potic  and  mirthless.  No  smile  had  been  there  in 
thirty-three  years.  Nor  in  thirty-three  years  had  it 
pronounced  a  word.  The  chin  beneath  resembled 
the  chin  of  Philip  the  Second;  square,  ponderous, 
bony  and  aggressive,  with  no  mitigating  curves.  His 
light  blue  eyes  were  also  hard,  and  they  were  search 
ing  and  suspicious.  But  their  expression  may  have 
been  damaged  by  thirty-three  years  of  silent  rage. 
Nevertheless,  when  a  younger  man  he  had  been 
considered  handsome — something  of  a  lady  killer, 
in  fact. 

Turning  to  Auntie  George  seated  by  another  win 
dow,  and  reading  the  Times,  he  came  and  stood  over 
her,  moving  his  fingers  to  this  effect : 

"Octavia  is  looking  better.     More  color." 

"Yes  indeed !  she  never  looked  better.  The  dear 
girl  seems  brighter  and  happier,  too." 

"And  all  of  a  sudden,"  remarked  the  fingers. 

"Yes,  surprisingly  sudden." 

"What  is  the  cause?" 

Auntie  George  shook  her  head. 


Pandora's   Box 

"May  be  the  good  weather,"  suggested  the  fin 
gers. 

"  Yes,  that  may  have  much  to  do  with  it — together 
with  her  work  in  the  garden." 

The  fierce,  gray  eyebrows  of  the  old  Earl  came 
together  in  thought.  He  turned  and  walked  across 
the  library,  then  back,  and  again  stood  before  the 
Times.  The  fingers  moved.  "It  is  not  the  weather. 
Effect  is  too  sudden." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"She  may  be  in  love." 

With  a  contemptuous  movement  of  one  shoulder 
Auntie  George  slowly  shook  her  head.  "Absurd! 
In  the  first  place  there  is  no  one  for  her  to  fall  in 
love  with — surreptitiously  at  least;  and  secondly, 
she  is  not  that  kind  of  girl." 

"Any  girl,"  jerked  the  fingers,  "is  all  kinds  of 
a  girl.  I  believe  she  is  in  love.  Nothing  else  ex 
plains  it." 

Now  this  old  gentleman  had,  in  his  youth,  given 
much  of  his  time  to  the  other  sex.  Auntie  George, 
remembering  this,  looked  up  with  a  smile.  "I  sup 
pose  you  consider  yourself  an  authority  on  women." 

Solemnly  he  nodded. 

Auntie  George  straightened  up,  laid  the  Times 
upon  her  lap  and  addressed  her  uncle  as  she  might 
speak  to  a  child  who  was  either  slow  of  comprehen 
sion  or  perverse. 

"Why  is  it  that  men  always  think  a  woman  must 
be  in  love?  Masculine  vanity,  I  suppose.  It  hap- 


Another   Visit 

pens  in  this  case  that  Octavia,  the  last  few  days, 
instead  of  spending  a  few  moments  in  her  garden, 
trimming  and  gathering  flowers,  has  gone  seriously 
to  work  for  an  hour  or  two  at  a  time.  She  has  even 
sent  away  old  Benson,  saying  that  she  preferred  to 
do  all  the  gardening  with  her  own  hands.  He  told 
me  that  himself.  Now  you  know  as  well  as  I  do 
how  a  new  interest,  a  fresh  enthusiasm,  affects  the 
spirits." 

He  nodded;  and  the  fingers  inquired,  "You  say 
she  sends  the  gardener  away,  preferring  to  be 
alone?" 

"Yes.  And  it's  quite  natural.  I  can  understand 
it." 

Slowly  up  and  down  the  Earl  moved  his  head  in 
sign  of  approval.  His  sunless  countenance  became 
less  gloomy  for  an  instant — its  nearest  approach  to 
a  smile.  He  elevated  the  beetling  eyebrows,  then 
turned  away.  When  a  face  has  abstained  from 
smiling  for  thirty-three  years  its  lines  of  mirth  are 
not  easily  renewed. 

Over  the  Garden  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty  that 
morning,  when  Octavia  entered,  the  usual  silence 
reigned — the  melancholy  silence  of  deserted  places. 
But  this  deserted  place  was  all  aglow  with  sunshine. 
When  she  had  fairly  entered  and  paused  a  moment 
to  breathe  the  fragrance  of  its  neglected  flowers, 
she  heard,  from  the  great  window  above,  the  voice 
of  Ethan  Lovejoy.  It  was  bursting  forth,  of  a  sud- 


172  Pandora's    Box 

den,  into  song.  The  song,  a  wordless  thing,  was 
unmusically  rendered,  but  delivered  with  enthusi 
asm.  When,  a  moment  later,  she  stood  in  the  door 
way  of  the  old  hall,  he  abruptly  ended  his  song, 
faced  about  and  greeted  her  with  a  ceremonious 
bow. 

In  front  of  him,  also  facing  her,  stood — or  rather 
moved — Baseborn.  And  it  was  evident  that  Base- 
born  intended  his  movements  to  express  an  equally 
cordial  greeting.  While  agitating  his  crooked  tail 
with  joyous  excitement  he  was  laboring  in  front, 
up  and  down,  plunging  like  a  ship  at  sea — or  like 
a  rocking  horse.  For  Baseborn,  heavily  built  about 
the  neck  and  shoulders  and  clumsy  behind,  was  not 
designed  for  airy  grace.  This  present  behavior  was 
clearly  the  involuntary  manifestation  of  an  irre 
pressible  glee.  In  executing  these  movements  he 
slowly  backed  away,  as  she  advanced,  but  always 
facing  her. 

Octavia  acknowledged  the  welcome  of  these  two 
beings  by  curtsies,  one  for  the  man  and  one  for  the 
dog.  Then,  as  she  approached  the  drawing  table, 
inquired : 

"What  is  that  song  you  were  trying  to  sing?" 

Lovejoy  without  replying  turned  to  the  dog. 
"Baseborn,  did  you  hear  that?  Trying  to  sing!" 

Octavia  smiled.  "You  tried  and  succeeded.  It 
was  splendidly  rendered.  But  what  is  it?  I  have 
heard  it  before  but  cannot  recall  its  name." 

"The  name  of  that  piece  of  music,"  said  Ethan, 
"is  'See  the  Conquering  Hero  Comes.'  " 


Another  Visit  J73 

"Thank  you.  I  am  very  much  honored.  And 
perhaps  you  would  not  mind  telling  me  how  you 
happened  to  know  just  the  moment  I  entered 
the  garden,  to  time  the  greeting  with  such  pre 
cision." 

'That  was  very  simple.  I  made  Baseborn  sit  on 
the  window  seat,  for  I  knew  his  joy  at  your  ap 
proach  would,  like  my  own,  be  hard  to  repress.  So, 
when  his  tail  began  to  thump  against  the  casement 
and  there  came  a  great  efftilgence  in  the  garden, 
then  I  knew  the  soul  of  an  honest  dog  was  bursting 
with  rapture ;  that  the  old  yew  trees  were  trying  to 
clap  their  hands;  that  the  roses  of  Anne  Boleyn 
were  blushing  and  smiling  and  nodding  their 
heads." 

Octavia  reddened  slightly,  then  lowered  her  eyes 
to  the  drawing.  "So  you  knew  all  that  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  knew  all  that !  Which  is  why,  at  the 
proper  moment — the  psychological  second — a  splen 
did  chorus  of  ten  thousand  male  voices  burst  upon 
the  air  in  a  song  of  praise  and  thanksgiving.  And 
perhaps  you  noticed,  or  rather  felt,  the  accompani 
ment?"  " 

"No." 

"What!  Not  the  silent  symphony  of  Baseborn' s 
expanding  soul?" 

She  shook  her  head,  still  studying  the  drawing. 
In  a  reflective  tone  he  added,  also  looking  at  the 
drawing : 

"Two  dogs  with  but  a  single  thought." 


J74  Pandora's   Box 

"Your  voice  and  method,"  said  Octavia,  "are 
both  remarkable.  But  less  astonishing  perhaps  than 
your  courage  in  trying  to  sing." 

"More  thanks.  I  would  rather  you  considered 
me  brave  than — melodious." 

Octavia  expressed  surprise  at  the  progress  he  had 
made  since  her  last  inspection  of  the  drawings. 

"How  can  you  work  with  that  bandaged  hand?" 

"Oh,  that  hand  doesn't  really  work.  It  merely 
moves  the  T  square  and  triangle." 

Then  followed  questions  and  answers,  criticisms 
and  suggestions.  Her  interest  in  this  work  was 
serious,  and  intelligent.  At  last,  taking  up  a  little 
catalogue  of  engravings  that  lay  beside  the  drawing, 
she  studied  the  portrait  upon  its  cover. 

"Whose  head  is  that?" 

"Abraham  Lincoln's." 

"Not  handsome,  was  he?" 

"No,  very  homely — and  unpretending  and  strong 
and  wise  and  gentle.  He  was  also  self-sacrificing, 
and  absolutely  honest.  And  his  sense  of  humor  was 
unquenchable." 

She  raised  her  face  and  regarded  him  with  a  pe 
culiar  expression.  "That  is  a  perfect  description 
of  your  own  character !" 

Ethan  Lovejoy,  as  his  eyes  met  hers,  saw  that  she 
was  in  earnest.  Into  his  face  came  a  sudden  color 
that  resembled  a  blush.  He  looked  down  at  his  work 
and  shook  his  head. 

"No !  no !    I  wish  it  were." 


Another  Visit  *75 

"But  it  is!"  persisted  Octavia,  enjoying  his  em 
barrassment.     "Was  Lincoln  tall  and  thin?" 
"Yes,  very  tall  and  very  thin." 
"But  strong,  physically?" 
"Indeed  he  was !    Exceptionally  strong." 
"Then  you  are  like  him  physically  too !   And  I  am 
not  sure  that  even  your  faces  are  not  alike.     That 
is,  you  look  as  he  may  have  looked  when  he  was 
younger  and  before  he  became,  quite  so — so  notice 
ably  plain." 

He  smiled.  "You  could  not  pay  me  a  higher 
compliment.  He  was  as  sublime  a  hero  as  ever 
lived  and  died  for  his  country." 

"So  would  you  live  and  die  for  your  country. 
And  for  even  less  than  your  country."  With  a 
smile  she  added :  "I  have  seen  you  at  a  fire." 

He  also  smiled,  but  lowered  his  eyes  to  the  draw 
ing.  "Seriously,  I  tremble  for  this  high  opinion  of 
me  you  seem  resolved  to  maintain.  It  was  merely 
physical  courage  you  witnessed  at  that  fire — the  very 
commonest  form  of  the  article.  My  tumble  will 
be  of  corresponding  distance.  I  feel  it  in  my  bones. 
One  more  display  of  my  agility  at  a  fire  and  you  will 
have  me  in  the  same  class  with  Regulus,  the  Cheva 
lier  Bayard,  and  George  Washington." 

"Agility!"  she  repeated,  turning  again  to  the 
drawing.  "You  certainly  have  chosen  a  modest 
word.  But  what  is  that  figure  on  the  terrace?  It 
seems  a  very  poor  place  for  a  statue." 

"It's  not  a  statue,  merely  a  man  I  drew  to  show 


Pandora's  Box 

the  scale."     And  as  he  spoke,  he  began  to  rub  the 
figure  out. 

"Now/'  said  Octavia,  "he  looks  like  a  ghost— the 
ghost  of  some  American  tourist." 

"American  tourists,"  said  Ethan,  "seldom  wear 
armor.  And  they  never  haunt  castles— that  is,  not 
after  death.  Besides,  he  has  a  British  aspect.  He 
lacks  the  beauty  and  fine  distinction  of  the  American 
millionaire  tourist.  Still,  he  might  be  an  American 
millionaire  come  over  to  marry  his  daughter  to  a 
British  nobleman." 

After  a  pause  Octavia  looked  up.  "Tell  me,  for 
which  of  the  two,  in  that  case,  have  you  most  sym 
pathy,  the  bride  or  the  groom?" 

"The  groom.  He  needs  the  money  and  has  to 
marry  whatever  will  bring  it.  Whereas  the  woman 
has  no  pinching  need  of  a  title.  With  the  man  it  is 
good  business.  With  the  woman  it  is  neither  busi 
ness  nor  sentiment.  He  marries  a  woman  who  is 
for  sale." 

"So  is  he  for  sale." 

"Yes,  but  for  a  price  that  saves  himself  and  his 
family.  Whereas  the  woman  has  not  that  excuse. 
If  I  were  Lord  Heps  ford,  for  instance,  and  in  love 
with  the  English  woman  that  he  is  in  love  with,  and 
the  family  required — " 

"But  perhaps  he  is  not." 

"He  is !    He  must  be !    He  couldn't  help  it !" 

Octavia  turned  away  as  he  spoke,  and  moved 
toward  the  window.  And  he  thought,  from  a  rapid 


Another  Visit  J77 

glance  at  what  he  could  see  of  one  cheek,  that  more 
color  had  come  into  it. 

"You  seem  to  know  a  great  deal  about  it — Lord 
Hepsford  and  his  feelings." 

"I  do.  Not  so  much  about  Lord  Hepsford  as 
about  his  inevitable  feelings.  And  if  the  family 
finances  required  that  I  should  give  her  up,  why — I 
— oh,  I  just  wouldn't !" 

Octavia  laughed,  involuntarily.  But  the  laugh 
was  low  and  barely  reached  his  ears.  It  ended  in  a 
little  exclamation  of  amusement.  On  the  seat  be 
fore  her  rested  a  queer  little  vase,  gaudily  colored 
and  over  decorated ;  in  it  a  flower. 

"One  of  Anne  Boleyn's  roses!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Thank  you.  But  you  should  not  pick  them.  It 
is  really  too  dangerous.  And  what  an  amazing  little 
vase!  Where  on  earth  did  you  find  it?" 

"In  the  village,  at  Simeon  Blake's." 

She  took  it  up  and  studied  it.  "Well,  I  should 
think  so!  It  looks  like  Simeon's  taste.  Isn't  it 
hideous!" 

"It  is  a  present  for  you,  and  I  paid  threepence  for 
it.  I  can't  say  I  like  your  language  when  receiving 
gifts." 

Octavia  laughed.  It  was  a  quiet  little  laugh,  but 
spontaneous,  involuntary,  and  from  a  happy  heart. 
Had  her  grandfather  or  Auntie  George  been  present 
they  would  have  been  surprised.  For  several 
months  had  passed  since  they  had  heard  a  similar 
sound  from  Octavia's  lips. 


Pandora's   Box 

"Is  it  really  for  me?  Then  I  beg  your  pardon. 
It  is  lovely.  But  you  must  admit  the  rose  is  even 
more  beautiful.  Not  more  beautiful,  perhaps,  but — 
but  in  a  different  style." 

"Yes,  I  will  admit  that;  but  nothing  more." 

Comfortably  settled  in  her  usual  corner  at  the 
window  Octavia  took  the  rose  from  the  ridiculous 
vase,  and  after  breathing  its  perfume  a  moment 
tucked  it  in  the  front  of  her  dress.  Lovejoy  went 
on  with  his  work.  The  silence,  for  a  time,  was 
broken  only  by  the  singing  of  one  or  two  birds  in 
the  old  garden. 

Through  the  open  window  came  the  voice  of  a 
dog  barking  in  a  neighboring  field.  Baseborn  sprang 
to  his  feet  as  if  receiving  a  challenge  from  a  foe — 
as  is  the  manner  of  dogs.  He  jumped  upon  the 
vacant  window-seat,  the  one  opposite  Octavia. 
Standing  upon  his  hind  legs,  his  front  feet  upon  the 
sill,  he  also  barked,  projecting  his  message  through 
the  open  casement,  out  over  the  peaceful  landscape. 
This  sudden  rending  of  the  air,  warlike  and  harsh, 
startled  the  birds  and  disturbed  the  slumbering  mem 
ories  of  the  Garden  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty.  It  also 
disturbed  Octavia.  She  frowned.  "Stop  it,  you 
horrid  dog !" 

But  Baseborn  barked  again. 

"Baseborn,"  said  Lovejoy,  "shut  up.  Mind  that 
lady.  She  owns  this  castle  and  everybody  in  it,  and 
if  we  don't  behave,  you  and  I,  we  shall  be  forcibly 
ejected,  and  bundled  off  to  America." 


Another  Visit  J79 

Baseborn,  without  moving  his  feet,  turned  his 
head  and  regarded  Octavia  in  surprise,  as  if  to  say, 
"Really!  Is  that  true ?" 

The  inquiring  look  was  so  very  human  that  Oc 
tavia  leaned  her  head  against  the  wall,  and  again 
she  laughed. 

Then  another  silence. 

In  the  soft  air  this  June  morning,  coming  gently 
through  the  open  casement,  Octavia  felt  the  serene, 
unquestioning  joy  of  a  perfect  contentment.  For 
gotten,  at  present,  were  certain  former  unsatisfied 
yearnings,  the  result  of  disappointed  hopes;  of  un 
realized  dreams.  Now,  the  first  time  in  a  year  or 
more,  she  was  really  happy.  And  there  was  no  de 
sire  to  learn  the  cause.  She  merely  closed  her  eyes, 
took  long,  deep  breaths  of  the  perfumes  of  the  an 
cient  garden,  and  enjoyed  the  passing  hour.  With 
such  experiences  of  perfect  happiness  there  often 
comes  the  consciousness — or  fear — that  these  un 
wonted  moments  are  too  good  to  last — that  pay 
ment  in  corresponding  degree  may  be  exacted  later. 
So  it  was  with  Octavia.  These  moments  of  perfect 
contentment,  while  long  remembered,  are  seldom 
realized,  at  the  time,  in  their  fullest  value.  To  those 
two  people,  taking  a  deeper  joy  in  each  other's  pres 
ence  than  either  realized — or  than  Octavia  would 
have  admitted  even  to  herself — there  seemed  no  rea 
son,  this  perfect  June  morning,  why  this  visit,  or 
others  like  it,  should  not  continue  indefinitely. 


XV 

FROM   A  TREW  LOVIR 

DURING  this  eloquent  silence — eloquent  be 
cause  it  proclaimed  the  significant  truth  that 
words   were   no   longer   necessary — Ethan 
Love  joy,  with  occasional  stealthy  glances  toward 
the  lady  at  the  window,  tore  off  a  piece  of  tracing 
paper  and  wrote  upon  it.     Folding  to  a  small  di 
mension  and  concealing  it  in  the  palm  of  his  hand, 
he  arose  carelessly,  as  for  relief  from  work.    Hum 
ming  any  old  tune,  he  strolled  with  crafty  indif 
ference  down  the  hall,  behind  his  visitor. 

In  a  corner  of  the  chimney  stood  a  marble  statue 
of  Pandora.  This  figure,  the  size  of  life,  was 
mounted  on  a  pedestal  which  brought  the  casket 
in  one  of  her  hands  about  on  a  level  with  Ethan's 
head.  Pandora's  other  hand  was  pressed  against 
her  cheek  as  she  gazed,  with  startled  eyes,  at  the 
open  box.  Into  this  box,  after  assuring  himself 
that  he  was  not  observed,  Ethan  hastily  dropped  his 
note.  On  the  way  back  to  his  drawing,  he  paused 
before  a  portrait  and  inquired,  carelessly,  merely  to 
divert  any  possible  suspicion  from  a  serious  purpose 
in  his  journey,  "Whose  portrait  is  this,  full  length, 

180 


From   a  Trew   Lovir          181 

all  in  brown  with  a  gun  in  his  hand  ?"    There  being 
no  reply  he  added : 

'The  tough-looking  chap  with  the  jaw." 

"That  is  my  grandfather." 

"Not  the  present  earl?" 

"Yes." 

Ethan,  with  a  contrite  face,  came  and  stood  be 
fore  her.  "I  beg  your  pardon.  He  is  so  much 
younger — and — I — from  his  costume — " 

"You  are  forgiven.  We  all  know  that  his  expres 
sion  is  not  amiable — and  that  he  has  a  jaw." 

"But  I  am  ashamed:  heartily  ashamed.  I  sup 
posed  it  the  portrait  of  a  dead  and  gone  ancestor. 
But  that  does  not  excuse  me." 

"Oh  yes  it  does!  Poor  grandfather's  expression 
is  not  amiable.  That  is  common  knowledge.  But 
he  has  good  reason  to  be  grim  and  embittered." 

Ethan  drew  his  unbandaged  hand  across  his  fore 
head  as  if  to  stimulate  his  memory.  "Please  shut 
me  up  if  it  is  none  of  my  business;  but  he  lost  the 
power  of  speech  very  suddenly,  did  he  not?" 

"Very  suddenly." 

"Marvelous  tales  are  told  in  the  village,  all  of 
which  you  have  probably  heard." 

"Yes,  a  great  many.    But  what  have  you  heard  ?" 

Ethan  seated  himself  on  the  opposite  seat  in  the 
window.  "Well,  they  are  too  silly  to  repeat.  But 
one  is  that,  on  a  summer's  night,  long  ago,  he  lost 
his  temper,  which  was  a  bad  one,  and  so  hot  was  his 
rage  that  it  withered  all  power  of  speech.  Another 


1 82  Pandora's   Box 

tale  is  that  he  shook  his  fist  at  heaven  and  was 
cursing  his  Maker  when  his  Maker  cursed  back  and 
rendered  him  forever  dumb.  Another  that  he  hurled 
his  young  bride  from  a  high  tower  and— 

Octavia  moved  impatiently ;  then  straightened  up 
and  frowned.  'Those  tales  I  have  heard.  They 
are  interesting  samples  of  what  ignorant  people  can 
believe.  And  too  ridiculous,  one  would  think,  for 
other  people  to  enjoy." 

"I  did  not  enjoy  them.  But  please  be  fair.  You 
asked  what  I  had  heard.  I  merely  referred  to  them 
as  curiosities;  not  as  history.  Again  I  beg  your 
pardon.  Not  because  I  am  guilty,  but  because  you 
are  offended." 

"I  am  not  offended." 

"Then  you  are  favoring  Baseborn  and  me  with 
an  excellent  imitation.  But  perhaps  your  kindness 
of  heart  persuades  you  to  the  contrary." 

Octavia  raised  her  eyebrows,  and  tilted  her  chin. 
She  also  made  a  feeble  attempt  at  a  smile.  But  the 
attempt  was  a  failure. 

"Don't  you  think,"  said  Ethan,  "that  a  certain  ig 
norance  of  civilized  manners  might  be  forgiven  the 
untutored,  western  savage?" 

"There  is  a  difference,  even  in  savages." 
"Have  you  known  many?" 
"Only  one." 

Other  silent  seconds  passed,  Octavia  looking  idly 
out  the  window;  Ethan,  with  a  half  suppressed 
smile,  studying  the  lady's  face.  At  last  her  eyes 


From   a  Trew   Lovir          *&3 

turned  slowly  toward  him.    "You  believe  my  grand 
father  has  a  frightful  temper." 

"I  believe  nothing  without  your  approval." 

"He  did  have  a  temper  when  he  was  younger. 
And  he  has  tried  hard  to  conquer  it.  Such  a  temper 
is  a  hideous  misfortune — a  curse." 

"Do  you  inherit?" 

She  smiled,  faintly,  leaned  back  and  resumed  her 
old  position,  turning  her  face  toward  the  garden. 
"Yes;  you  saw  it  the  other  day  when  I  insulted  you 
and  your  country,  and  threw  your  flowers  out  the 
window." 

"Oh,  well,  it's  a  weak  inheritance  if  that's  the 
worst  you  can  do !" 

Folding  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  leaning  forward, 
Octavia  spoke  in  a  more  serious  tone.  "All  that  we 
really  know  is  this.  Years  ago,  grandfather's  sec 
ond  wife,  a  mere  girl  of  eighteen,  was  sitting  one 
evening  with  the  rest  of  the  family  in  the  library 
here  at  the  castle,  when  she  laid  down  her  needle 
work  and  walked  out  on  the  terrace — the  long  gar 
den  terrace  that  overlooks  the  river.  My  two  great 
aunts  who  were  sitting  in  the  room  with  her  saw 
my  grandfather  pass  through  the  hall,  a  moment 
afterwards,  as  if  following  her.  She  never  returned. 
She  was  never  seen  again  by  any  of  the, family:  nor 
by  anybody  we  know." 

Ethan  Lovejoy  raised  his  eyebrows.  He  also 
puckered  his  lips  as  if  about  to  whistle.  But  no 
sound  came  forth. 


1 84  Pandora's   Box 

Octavia  continued.  "When  my  grandfather  re 
turned,  two  or  three  hours  later,  he  seemed  a  differ 
ent  man.  He  had  lost  all  power  of  speech.  And 
during  the  thirty  years  and  more  that  have  followed 
he  has  never  been  seen  to  smile." 

"Well,  that  is  mysterious.  But,  was  there  no  sus 
picion  of — of — " 

"Murder?  No,  not  for  a  moment.  My  grand 
father  said  she  was  alive  and  well.  Beyond  that  he 
tells  nothing.  The  subject  is  never  alluded  to  in  the 
family." 

"But  you  surely  have  some  theory  abcut  it." 

"There  is  a  story  of  a  letter  coming  to  the  castle, 
months  afterwards,  directed  in  her  handwriting;  but 
it  was  seen  only  by  the  postman.  My  grandfather 
never  spoke  of  it." 

"Most  mysterious!"  murmured  Ethan.  "But 
somebody  must  know  something  about  it." 

"We  think  it  may  have  been  a  sudden  impulse,  as 
she  took  nothing  with  her;  not  even  a  wrap,  or  hat." 

"Was  she  an  erratic  lady,  and  given  to  surprising 
deeds?" 

"Not  at  all.  She  was  a  most  well  behaved,  sen 
sible  person,  and  rather  domestic.  Not  at  all  ad 
venturous." 

"She  was  your  grandmother?" 

"Oh,  no!  She  was  grandfather's  second  wife — 
and  much  younger  than  himself." 

Ethan  looked  down  at  Baseborn,  then  out  over 
the  garden,  gently  tapping  the  window-sill  with  his 


From  a  Trew   Lovir          I^5 

fingers.  "Well,  combined  with  the  Earl  of  Drum- 
worth's  loss  of  speech,  it  beats  anything  I  have 
heard  in  the  way  of  a  mystery.  I  don't  quite  see  how 
the  rest  of  the  family  could  resist  clearing  it  up." 

"You  would  easily  understand  if  you  knew  my 
grandfather.  Nobody  in  the  family  or  in  the  vil 
lage,  nor  anywhere  else  for  that  matter,  dares  refer 
to  it  in  his  presence.  It  has  embittered  his  whole 
life." 

"Was  it  literally  during  the  hour  or  two  of  his 
absence,  the  time  of  her  disappearance,  that  he  lost 
his  speech?" 

"Yes." 

"They  seem  to  believe  in  the  village  there  was — " 

"What?" 

"Oh,  the  usual  gossip.    Nothing  in  particular." 

"What  were  you  going  to  say?" 

"I  am  afraid." 

She  smiled.  "I  will  protect  you.  Finish  the  sen 
tence." 

"Another  man  in  the  case." 

An  affirmative  movement  of  Octavia's  head. 

Ethan  reflected  a  moment.  "I  have  no  reverence 
for  the  proprieties.  Respectability  bores  me  and  I 
know  conventionality  to  be  the  refuge  of  the  timid 
and  the  dull.  So  I  should  always  do  the  wrong 
thing  in  social  emergencies.  But  had  I  a  wife  whom 
I  loved  more  than  I  loved  myself,  and  she  ran  away 
with  a  better  man  in  her  opinion  than  Ethan  Love- 
joy,  I  think  I  should  behave  badly.  There  could 


186  Pandora's    Box 

be  no  middle  course.     I  should  either  be  grateful 
for  the  relief  or — overtake  him." 

"My  grandfather  could  not  overtake  him.  They 
sailed  for  South  America  and  we  heard  the  ship  was 
wrecked." 

"Was  she  pretty,  this  runaway  lady?" 
"Oh,  remarkably  pretty !    Her  portrait,  for  years, 
hung  over  the  mantel  in  my  chamber.    It  was  a  gen 
tle,  lovable  face." 

Ethan  smiled.  "One  can  easily  understand  its 
removal  to  a  shadowy  corner." 

"But  the  portrait  and  I  were  best  of  friends.  I 
must  find  it." 

"Perhaps  it's  up  in  that  gallery  there,  at  the  end 
of  the  Hall.  Seems  a  mysterious  place.  It  might 
be  hiding  a  lot  of  secrets;  missing  documents,  deeds 
and  blood  stained  wills.  Do  you  know  what  is 
really  up  there?" 

"Yes,  the  very  things  you  mention;  discarded 
furniture,  portraits,  old  papers,  all  kinds  of  rub 
bish." 

The  architect  and  his  visitor,  both  in  pensive 
mood  at  their  opposite  corners  of  the  old  window, 
looked  out  over  the  drowsy  garden.  At  last  Octa- 
via,  her  head  still  resting  against  the  paneling, 
slowly  turned  her  eyes  in  Ethan's  direction,  and  in 
quired  the  hour. 

Putting  his  good  hand  up  under  the  ridiculous 
blouse  he  drew  forth  his  watch.  "According  to  this 
timepiece,  which  is  absolutely  reliable,  it  is  now  a 


From  a  Trew   Lovir          l87 

lovely  morning  in  the  month  of  June.  It  says  the 
hour  is  of  no  importance." 

Baseborn,  either  attracted  by  the  glitter  of  the 
gold  or  impelled  by  a  desire  for  closer  knowledge 
of  the  passing  time,  arose  and  put  his  nose  to  the 
watch.  Ethan  turned  the  face  so  that  he  could  see 
it  better.  "Am  I  right,  old  man?  Is  further  in 
formation  superfluous?" 

It  so  happened,  that  as  he  finished  speaking  Base- 
born  bowed  his  head  and  sneezed.  The  two  human 
beings  laughed,  involuntarily.  Ethan  replaced  his 
watch.  "The  majority  is  against  the  lady.  Further 
questions  on  that  subject  will  be  considered  an  im 
pertinence." 

But  Octavia  rose,  as  if  to  go. 

"Oh !"  he  exclaimed  with  a  frown.  "Not  already ! 
And  after  what  Baseborn  said?" 

"That  depends  upon  the  hour." 

"It  is  twenty  minutes  past  eleven." 

"Then  I  must  go." 

"Please  tarry — just  a  little.  I  have  something  of 
great  importance  to  say  to  you." 

"About  what?" 

"About — about — er — what  are  you  most  inter 
ested  in?" 

With  a  contemptuous  motion  of  the  head  Octavia 
took  up  her  basket.  Ethan  Lovejoy  also  stood  up. 
"Please  give  me  three  minutes  more.  For  this  is  a 
vital  matter." 


i88  Pandora's   Box 

She  paused,  but  without  regarding  him,  as  if  pa 
tiently  waiting. 

"Is  your  correspondence/'  he  asked,  "especially 
interesting  as  a  rule  ?" 

She  turned  toward  him  in  mild  surprise. 

"I  mean,  do  you  receive  many  letters  that  com 
bine,  in  the  highest  degree,  entertainment  with  in 
struction  ?" 

The  only  reply  to  this  question  was  a  suspicious 
glance.  Being  familiar  with  this  American's  ten 
dency  to  promiscuous  nonsense,  she  murmured,  in 
differently,  "And  if  I  do?  And  if  I  don't?" 

"Because  I  have  a  strange  presentiment,  an  unac 
countable,  overmastering  conviction,  that  Pandora 
over  there  has  a  precious  communication  for  you, 
and  is  waiting  for  you  to  take  it." 

"She  can  wait." 

"Oh,  how  can  you  be  so  snubby  to  Pandora— 
and  so  cruel  to  the  writer  of  the  letter?" 

"Who  is  the  writer?" 

"How  should  I  know  ?  Would  I  presume  to  read 
your  letters?" 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  Octavia  replaced  her 
basket  on  the  seat  and  moved,  in  a  somewhat  dis 
dainful  manner,  toward  Pandora.  In  front  of  the 
statue  she  stopped  and  turned  about.  "I  give  you 
fair  warning,  were  you  all  the  heroes  of  history, 
I  shall  not  forgive  you  if  I  am  deceived." 

But  Ethan,  with  a  sober  face,  had  seated  himself 
before  his  drawings,  and  appeared  hard  at  work. 


From  a  Trew   Lovir          l89 

Octavia,  reaching  up  a  hand,  inserted  her  fingers 
cautiously  in  the  marble  box.  Encountering  a  piece 
of  folded  note  paper  she  brought  it  forth.  There 
was  dust  upon  it.  With  a  little  snap  of  a  finger  to 
remove  this  dust  she  returned  to  the  window  and 
took  her  usual  seat.  Ethan  Love  joy  did  not  look 
up  from  his  work.  The  little  note  was  yellow 
with  age;  the  ink  seemed  faded.  Octavia  smiled  at 
what  she  considered  an  excellent  imitation  of  an 
tiquity,  and  at  the  pains  he  had  evidently  bestowed 
upon  it.  But  the  smile  departed  as,  in  silence,  she 
read  these  lines: 

To  My  Own 

Nothing,  dearest,  us  shall  sever, 
Heart  to  heart,  and  parting  never. 
Of  all  earthly  hopes  and  blisses, 
Of  all  dreams  the  sweetest  this  is, 
Just  our  Kosyie  Benche  with  moonlight 
And  a  garden  breathing  kisses. 

From  her  False  Poet  but 

"Trew  Lovir," 

E.  L. 

With  burning  cheeks  she  rose  from  her  seat. 
The  paper  dropped  from  her  fingers.  Instead  of 
reaching  the  floor  it  fluttered  into  the  garden  basket 
on  the  bench  beside  her.  She  stood  for  an  instant, 
erect,  uncertain.  All  the  pride  of  a  reserved  and 
sensitive  spirit  was  in  high  revolt.  Yet,  while 
seriously  offended,  she  felt,  even  at  the  moment,  less 
of  anger  than  of  grief.  Had  Ethan  Lovejoy  looked 


19°  Pandora's   Box 

up  at  that  moment,  and  seen  her  face,  this  interview 
might  have  ended  differently.  In  a  low  voice,  with 
a  slight  tremor,  she  asked,  still  hoping  there  was 
some  mistake : 

"Did  you  write  it?" 

Straightening  up,  with  his  head  to  one  side,  but 
with  eyes  ever  on  his  drawing  he  replied,  "Does  not 
the  signature  tell  who  wrote  it?" 

And  with  a  wave  of  his  pencil,  as  if  in  acknowl 
edgment  of  praise,  "We  greater  poets,  when  our 
souls  are  free,  can  work  just  such  wonders.  How 
does  it  strike  you?" 

In  silence  Octavia  took  up  her  basket.  Her  sor 
row — her  disappointment  in  this  man — was  even 
deeper  than  her  anger.  She  suffered — keenly  suf 
fered — under  the  sudden  realization  that,  after  all, 
he  was  not  a  gentleman,  that  he  knew  no  better,  and 
that  she  herself  was  to  blame  in  permitting  such 
advances.  Without  further  words  she  walked  away. 
And  when  Ethan  Love  joy  at  last  wheeled  about  and 
exclaimed,  "But  you  are  not  off  like  that !"  she  still 
continued  without  turning,  passed  out  through  the 
doorway — and  was  gone. 


XVI 

A   LADY  THINKS 

BENEATH  the  cloistered  arches,  through  her 
own  little  garden  and  along  the  great  ter 
race,  Octavia  marched  with  burning  cheeks. 
Her  anger,  kept  alive  by  the  memory  of  the  odious 
verse,  was  more  endurable,  however,  than  her  sense 
of  shame  at  having  allowed  this — or  any  other — 
man  to  believe  that  he  could  take  such  liberty.  The 
very  fact  of  his  doing  it  signified  small  belief  in  her 
dignity,  her  womanly  pride,  or  even  in  her  self  re 
spect. 

Hastening  to  her  chamber  she  dropped  into  the 
nearest  chair.  Then,  with  an  elbow  on  the  table,  her 
chin  in  a  hand,  she  thought — and  thought — and 
thought,  with  swift  alternations  of  sorrow,  anger, 
and  contempt.  The  more  she  thought,  however, 
the  calmer  she  became,  until,  at  last,  she  almost 
pitied  the  man  for  his  folly. 

This  room  of  Octavia's,  in  one  of  the  great,  cor 
ner  towers  of  the  castle,  was  of  peculiar  shape,  being 
almost  round.  A  spacious  chamber  paneled  to  the 
ceiling,  richly  furnished  and  with  many  pictures— 
mostly  family  portraits — it  contained  also  a  multi- 

191 


I92  Pandora's   Box 

plicity  of  personal  treasures;  feminine  things,  photo 
graphs  of  friends,  favors — and  was  never  without 
flowers.  Although  a  large  room  it  had  but  one  win 
dow.  That  window,  however,  was  wide  and  high, 
with  stone  mullions. 

I*  Octavia  gazed  sadly  through  this  window,  over 
the  meadows  to  the  south  and  the  woods  to  the 
west,  but  seeing  nothing.  She  was  suffering  a  bit 
ter  disappointment.  And  spoiled  children  are  not, 
as  a  rule,  equipped  for  disappointment.  Between 
spasms  of  indignation  at  the  astounding  imperti 
nence  of  this  American's  verse  she  had,  for  the  man 
himself,  a  feeling  of  commiseration.  Deep  was  her 
regret  that  so  interesting  a  person — and  otherwise 
so  enjoyable — should  be  guilty  of  such  an  offense. 
As  a  display  of  bad  taste,  and  of  ill  breeding,  she 
could  not  forget  it. 

So,  in  sorrowing  silence,  with  moist  and  blink 
ing  eyes,  Octavia  gazed  out  into  the  joyous  'sun 
shine  of  this  perfect  day.  The  tear  that  started 
slowly  down  a  cheek  was  more  of  mourning  than 
of  anger.  The  anger  came  only  at  intervals,  when 
she  recalled  the  verse. 

In  those  other  and  more  merciful  intervals  she 
made  allowance  for  the  nationality  of  the  offender, 
which  was,  of  course,  more  his  misfortune  than  his 
fault.  His  instincts,  she  believed,  were  good.  But, 
born  of  ordinary  parents,  reared  in  a  raw  commu 
nity  where  a  gentleman  was  seldom  seen,  where  finer 
feelings  were  unknown,  or  despised,  where  his  par- 


A   Lady  Thinks  193 

ents  and  himself  were  inevitable  results  of  a  purely 
commercial  country,  where  people  of  refinement  did 
not — and  probably  could  not — exist,  it  was,  per 
haps,  unjust  to  blame  him  for  his  ignorance  of  the 
manners  and  customs  of  good  society.  His  parents 
were  probably  common  people,  and  while  his  resi 
dence  abroad  had  given  him  a  certain  knowledge  of 
external  deportment  he  would  prove  wanting  at  the 
real  test,  as  she  had  just  discovered. 

No,  he  was  not  a  gentleman. 

And  yet,  looking  back  upon  her  hours  in  his  com 
pany,  his  manners,  his  language,  always  of  a  culti 
vated  person,  and,  above  all,  his  splendid  courage  at 
the  fire,  his  quiet  heroism, — she  closed  her  eyes  and 
pressed  both  hands  against  her  temples. 

Confusion  racked  her  brain.  The  more  she 
thought,  the  more  she  wavered.  Then,  like  an  imp 
of  evil  came  dancing  through  her  head, 

" — breathing  kisses." 

With  the  recollection  of  these  words  Octavia's 
cheeks  never  failed  to  tingle.  In  a  flurry  of  anger 
she  stood  up.  Wheeling  about,  impelled  by  an  im 
pulse  she  could  not  explain,  her  eyes  turned  as  if 
for  enlightenment  to  an  empty  space  upon  the  wall, 
between  two  portraits.  This  space,  years  ago,  had 
been  filled  by  a  family  portrait,  but  of  whom  or  why 
removed  she  had  forgotten.  The  same  impulse, 
whatever  its  origin  or  significance,  had  caused  her, 
-more  than  once  since  her  acquaintance  with  this 


194  Pandora's   Box 

American,  to  look  inquiringly  in  that  direction.  This 
unexplained  prompting,  with  her  unreasoning  obe 
dience,  always  brought  the  same  result,  a  sense  of 
being  deceived.  Yet,  she  could  not  resist  the  suspi 
cion,  however  absurd,  of  some  remote  connection 
between  Ethan  Lovejoy  and  this  forgotten  por 
trait. 

The  suspicion,  whether  wise  or  foolish,  seemed 
stronger  at  the  present  moment  than  ever  before. 
She  closed  her  eyes,  then  looked  again  at  the  vacant 
place  as  if  for  a  solution  of  this  enigma;  this  puz 
zling,  unfortunate  trick — of  her  imagination,  per 
haps. 

But,  even  if  a  trick  of  her  imagination  she  felt 
there  must  be  some  origin,  or  cause.  And  why,  un 
failingly,  this  particular  spot,  this  vacant  bit  of 
wall?  She  began  to  wonder  if  the  impression  of  a 
face  might  linger  in  the  brain  when  all  memory  of 
the  face  itself  had  faded.  Even  if  that  were  possible 
who  was  the  sitter  for  this  portrait? — a  portrait 
not  seen  since  childhood  yet  still  exerting  such  an 
influence.  And  what  the  mystic  power  that  her 
eyes,  with  no  volition  of  her  own,  should  be  drawn 
unerringly  to  this  vacant  space?  And  why  was  it 
that  her  curiosity  was  never  excited,  that  her  eyes 
never  sought  this  empty  space  except  when  the 
American  was  in  her  thoughts?  What  conceivable 
relation,  ancestral,  personal  or  pictorial  could  pos 
sibly  exist  between  the  forgotten  relative  and  this 
absolute  stranger  from  a  far  away  land? 


A   Lady  Thinks  195 

With  a  frown  of  vexation  she  moved  impatient 
ly  away  and  gave  herself  to  other  matters. 

So  sensitive  was  Octavia's  face,  so  responsive  to 
her  own  emotions,  that  even  her  grandfather,  as 
they  sat  at  lunch  that  day,  took  notice.  He  tapped 
upon  the  table,  his  usual  method  of  gaining  atten 
tion;  and  when  her  eyes,  from  restless  wanderings 
over  the  sunny  lawn,  came  back  and  met  his  own,  he 
moved  his  fingers. 

"Not  feeling  well?"  they  inquired. 

She  nodded  and  smiled.  "Oh,  yes!  very  well. 
Why  do  you  ask?" 

He  made  no  answer,  merely  a  slight  shrug  of 
the  shoulders.  Had  he  a  voice  this  movement 
might  have  been  expressed  by  a  word  or  two  of 
doubt. 

"You  do  seem  a  bit  out  of  sorts,"  said  Auntie 
George.  "Has  anything  gone  wrong?" 

"No,  indeed!    Nothing  whatever." 

And  to  prove  the  truth  of  her  words  Octavia 
brightened  up  and  talked  of  anything.  An  hour 
later,  however,  when  the  old  Earl  was  alone  with 
Auntie  George,  his  fingers  referred  to  Octavia,  and 
they  added,  "Same  old  look  under  eyes.  Has  come 
all  of  a  sudden." 

Auntie  George  moved  her  head  with  solemn  as 
sent.  "Yes,  and  I  cannot  account  for  it.  She  seems 
very  well,  otherwise,  and  I  am  sure  nothing  has  oc 
curred  to  disturb  her.  She  has  no  secrets,  you 
know." 


Pandora's   Box 

"Don't  like  to  see  it,"  said  the  fingers.  And  they 
went  up  stairs. 

Octavia  made  serious  efforts  during  the  day  to 
think  no  more  of  this  depreciated  American,  this 
hero  of  common  clay.  Such  efforts  were  unsuccess 
ful.  He  was  continually  in  her  mind,  and  to  the  ex 
clusion  of  other  things. 

In  the  afternoon,  she  walked  to  the  village  to  at 
tend  a  little  meeting  of  the  library  committee,  and 
as  she  walked  she  despised  herself  for  allowing  the 
memory  of  this  tactless  foreigner  to  absorb  her 
thoughts. 

From  these  self  reproaches  she  was  suddenly 
awakened,  on  the  main  street  of  the  village,  by  the 
unexpected  appearance  of  the  invader  himself. 
Emerging  somewhat  hastily  from  the  little  station 
er's  shop  he  turned  in  her  direction.  Both  he  and 
Octavia,  in  their  surprise,  stopped  short,  and  only 
a  few  feet  apart. 

For  an  instant  they  confronted  each  other  in 
silence.  Then  the  lady,  with  a  perfunctory  smile  and 
a  polite  but  formal  word  of  greeting,  started  for 
ward.  He  took  a  backward  step,  still  standing  in  her 
way.  Octavia,  raising  her  eyebrows  as  if  in  mild 
surprise,  looked  calmly  into  his  face — such  a  look 
as  the  queen  of  Sheba  might  bestow  upon  a  puddle 
in  the  street,  or  any  other  obstacle  of  similar  im 
portance.  But  the  tactless  American  stood  undis 
mayed.  He  looked  as  calmly  into  her  own  eyes  as 
she  into  his — and  spoke. 


A   Lady  Thinks  *97 

Octavia  lowered  her  eyes  to  Baseborn,  who  stood 
looking  up  into  her  face,  wagging  his  tail  as  if 
he,  at  least,  acknowledged  no  strained  relations 
and  believed  in  peace  and  love.  But,  unluckily, 
Baseborn  was  not  arbiter  in  this  affair. 

"It  surely  is  not  impertinent,  Lady  Octavia,  to  ask 
what  I  have  done  to  offend  you.  Even  the  worst 
law-breakers,  the  most  desperate  criminals,  are  per 
mitted  to  know  of  what  they  are  accused." 

Raising  her  eyes  from  Baseborn,  and  looking  at 
a  child  across  the  street  playing  with  a  doll  in  a 
doorway,  she  hesitated,  then  replied : 

"I  think  you  know." 

"On  my  honor  I  do  not!    What  is  it?" 

There  was  earnestness  in  his  manner,  sincerity  in 
his  voice.  With  his  hands  he  made,  unconsciously, 
a  slight  gesture  of  protestation  and  appeal. 

Octavia  wavered.  Involutarily  her  glance  came 
back  to  his  face  and  she  felt,  in  meeting  his  eyes— 
those  strangely  familiar  grey  eyes — the  old  spell. 
She  was  on  the  verge  of  smiling  and  saying  some 
thing  pleasant  but  noncommittal,  to  bring  an  end  to 
this  awkward  meeting,  when  again,  and  it  seemed 
for  the  hundredth  time  that  day,  came  dancing  into 
her  head, 

" — breathing  kisses." 

She  frowned,  drew  back  with  blushing  cheeks  and 
lowered  her  eyes.  In  a  voice  hardly  more  than  a 
whisper,  but  distinctly  heard,  she  said,  "Then  you 
never  will  know." 


i98  Pandora's    Box 

And  stepping  off  the  narrow  little  sidewalk  into 
the  street,  she  passed  around  him  and  walked  rapidly 
away. 

But,  even  before  she  had  reached  the  Library, 
less  than  five  minutes'  walk,  she  half  repented.  The 
sudden  anger,  always  created  by  the  memory  of  that 
detested  verse,  yielded  to  a  mild  reaction.  On  the 
steps  of  the  building  she  paused  and  looked  back, 
hoping  to  see  the  offender,  and,  by  look  or  word, 
mitigate  the  severity  of  his  punishment.  But  no 
American  was  in  sight. 

During  the  meeting  of  the  Library  committee  re 
pentance  flourished.  And  with  it  came  the  now 
familiar  sense  of  shame  at  the  manner  in  which  her 
thoughts  today  were  ever  wandering  from  the 
business  in  hand.  Present  at  this  meeting  were 
Octavia,  Mrs.  Wherry,  the  doctor's  wife,  the  Futile 
Librarian  of  noble  birth  and  the  wife  of  the  rector. 
Mrs.  Wherry  was  a  gentle  old  lady  of  lethargic 
habit  whose  attention,  when  directed  for  any  length 
of  time  upon  one  subject,  floated  quietly  away  into 
the  land  of  Nod.  Not  so  the  rector's  wife.  She  was 
a  stout,  middle-aged  matron  with  a  rugged,  benev 
olent  face,  iron-grey  hair  and  a  positive  but  not 
unpleasant  manner.  Next  to  Octavia  and  Auntie 
George  she  was  the  most  influential  woman  in  the 
village.  Business  relating  to  the  Library  had  never 
been  shirked  by  Octavia.  Her  interest  never  flagged. 
Today  there  was  question  of  rearrangement  of  cer 
tain  shelves  and  of  the  purchase  of  new  volumes. 


A  Lady  Thinks  199 

As  these  four  ladies  sat  at  one  end  of  a  large 
table  in  the  librarian's  room,  pencils  in  hand  with 
a  list  of  books  and  other  papers  before  them,  Oc- 
tavia  found  difficulty  in  concealing  from  her  three 
companions  the  mortifying  vagrancy  of  her 
thoughts.  Although  the  voices  of  these  women  had 
a  soothing  effect  she  could  not  forget  the  look  in 
Ethan  Lovejoy's  eyes  a  few  moments  ago;  his  evi 
dent  honesty  in  protesting  ignorance  of  his  offense, 
his — 

"What  do  you  think,  Lady  Octavia?"  and  the 
rector's  wife  leaned  back  and  removed  her  eye 
glasses.  "It  seems  to  me  it  would  be  a  mistake." 

Octavia  blinked  and  returned  to  the  meeting. 
With  a  presence  of  mind  that  surprised  herself  she 
answered,  reflectively,  "Yes,  possibly." 

"Although  published  long  ago  the  work  is  still 
inquired  for,"  admitted  the  Futile  Librarian. 

Octavia  nodded  a  hesitating  approval,  then  made 
a  venture.  "What  is  the  exact  title  of  the  book,  in 
full?" 

The  rector's  wife  looked  inquiringly  at  the  Futile 
Librarian,  who  frowned  and  tapped  her  forehead 
with  a  pencil. 

"Dear  me !  How  annoying !  '  I  really  forget,  but 
it  is  the  one  that  made  such  a  stir  years  ago — that 
ignores  religion  in  explaining  the  origin  of  man. 
The  book  is  distinctly  sacrilegious,  in  my  opinion. 
But  readers  of  Huxley's  other  works  often  ask  for 
it." 


200  Pandora's    Box 

The  word  Huxley  came  to  Octavia  as  the  sight  of 
land  to  Columbus. 

"I  should  be  exceedingly  sorry,"  said  the  rector's 
wife,  "to  be  in  any  way  instrumental  toward  the  de 
velopment  of  atheism  in  this  community." 

Octavia  nodded  approval.  "So  should  I.  But 
let  us  look  it  over.  If  it  seems  really  dangerous,  we 
can  act  accordingly." 

The  rector's  wife,  who  would  sooner  oppose  the 
British  Army  than  the  Lady  of  Drum  worth  Castle, 
expressed  her  approval  of  the  idea.  Mrs.  Wherry, 
being  asleep,  offered  no  remonstrance.  When  other 
questions  arose  relating  to  the  rearrangement  of  the 
fiction  alcove,  to  a  new  catalogue,  what  books  to 
weed  out,  etc.,  Octavia's  fancy  again  spread  its 
wings  and  again,  to  her  shame,  kept  floating  away 
to  the  great  sunlit  window  in  the  Baronial  Hall. 

Again  the  most  offensive  line  of  that  offensive 
verse  forced  itself  upon  her  memory;  but  now — per 
haps  from  having  achieved  its  malign  purpose — 
little  anger  was  aroused.  And  as  she  recalled  the 
architect's  unobjectionable  behavior  through  their 
various  meetings,  his  unfailing  tact,  and,  in  spite  of 
continual  bantering  and  nonsense,  his  perfect  cour 
tesy  with  never  a  moment  of  indiscretion  or  famil 
iarity,  she  felt  that  she  had  been  unjust.  Perhaps 
those  detestable  lines  were  written  in  a  hurry,  or 
thoughtlessly  copied  from  another's  poem.  And  then 
— even  if  really  guilty  of  this  transgression,  this  sin, 
this  misdemeanor,  lapse,  slip,  or  whatever  it  was — 


A  Lady  Thinks  201 

even  then,  in  view  of  his  splendid  action  at  the  fire, 
his  splendid  courage,  his  quiet  heroism,  even  then — 

"Do  you  recall  any,  Lady  Octavia?" 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  rector's  wife.  And  the 
eyes  of  the  rector's  wife  were  regarding  her.  More 
over,  she  leaned  forward  and  looked  over  her 
glasses,  evidently  attaching  importance  to  the  com 
ing  reply. 

Once  more  Octavia  pulled  herself  together.  But 
this  time  there  came  no  accidental  word  of  rescue,, 
no  aid  from  the  Futile  Librarian.  The  question 
itself,  which  might  apply  to  almost  anything  in  the 
solar  system,  offered  no  assistance,  not  the  faintest 
clue  to  any  previous  utterance.  And  not  for  worlds 
would  Octavia  hurt  the  feelings  of  the  rector's  wife 
whose  present  earnest  look  showed  clearly  that  she 
had  been  speaking  with  all  the  seriousness  of  a  very 
serious  nature.  In  this  crisis,  however,  no  human 
tact  was  of  much  avail.  So,  Octavia,  with  an  angel 
smile,  inquired, 

"Any  what?" 

"Any  who  do  it." 

"Do  what?" 

"Spell  properly." 

"Any  people  who  spell  properly?" 

"Yes,  of  that  nation." 

"Of  what  nation?" 

The  vicar's  wife  raised,  then  lowered  her  eye 
brows.  She  compressed  her  lips  and  leaned  back 
in  her  chair.  Once  more,  but  late  in  the  day,  the 


202  Pandora's   Box 

Futile  Librarian  came  unwittingly  to  the  rescue. 

"There  must  be  some  Americans  who  do  it." 

Then  Octavia  understood.  And  she  addressed 
the  rector's  wife  with  irresistible  charm:  "After  all, 
it  is  chiefly  in  omitting  the  u  from  certain  words." 

"Yes,  but  Lady  Octavia,  that  is  a  very  grave  mat 
ter.  The  rector  feels  as  I  do  that  the  purity  of  the 
English  tongue  should  be  respected  and  preserved. 
Careless  and  ignorant  spelling  in  a  literary  person 
is  inexcusable.  The  rector  has  often  said  so.  And 
besides,  as  we  all  agreed  the  other  day,  there  are 
no  American  authors  of  value;  none  whose  books 
are  needed  in  the  Library." 

"Did  I  say  that?"  and  Octavia's  face  showed  in 
credulity. 

"Yes,"  said  the  rector's  wife. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Futile  Librarian. 

"Oh!  did  I?  Well— if  I  did,  I— I  think— per 
haps — I  have  changed  my  mind." 

With  pained  surprise  the  rector's  wife  inquired, 
"Have  you  been  reading  American  literature?" 

Now,  as  it  happened,  the  only  American  literature 
recently  read  by  Octavia  was  that  calamitous  verse 
which  had  aroused  such  anger  and  contempt.  Nev 
ertheless,  she  answered  pleasantly,  with  a  little  more 
color  in  her  cheeks, 

"No ;  that  is,  what  little  I  have  read  of  their  litera 
ture  is  unimportant.  But  I  believe  that  occasional 
Americans  are  quite  well  educated." 


A  Lady  Thinks  203 

The  rector's  wife  hesitated.  "Yes,  there  must  be 
some  education  among  them,  of  course.  But  the 
influence  of  American  literature  is  certainly  most 
pernicious.  Their  authors  are  always  trying  to  be 
funny — merely  comic  writers." 

"But  Hawthorne,  Emerson  and  Longfellow,"  ven 
tured  the  Futile  Librarian,  "are  not  always  funny!" 

The  rector's 'wife  heaved  a  sigh,  wearily,  as  of  a 
serious-minded  but  very  patient  person  annoyed  by 
foolish  questions.  "I  am  not  familiar  with  their 
more  obscure  writers,  but  the  other  day  I  bought  a 
book  quite  famous,  in  America,  'Innocents  Abroad.' 
I  naturally  supposed  from  the  title  it  was  the  travels 
of  children  for  instruction.  After  presenting  it  to 
my  little  daughters  I  found  it  to  be  a  most  offensive 
book,  showing  extraordinary  ignorance;  very  silly, 
and  sacrilegious." 

"Oh,  fancy !"  and  the  Futile  Librarian  closed  her 
eyes  in  heartfelt  sympathy.  "Who  wrote  it?" 

"I  am  not  absolutely  sure,"  replied  the  rector's 
wife.  Then,  frowning  in  a  mental  effort,  "Could  it 
have  been  Abraham  Lincoln?  He  was  a  humorous 
person." 

"If  it's  a  bad  book,"  said  Octavia,  "he  did  not 
write  it." 

"I  am  not  so  sure.  He  was  a  most  contemptible 
character." 

"Abraham  Lincoln  ?" 

"Yes.  I  was  reading  about  him  quite  recently — 
a  perfectly  impartial  account  written  by  a  Charles- 


204  Pandora's    Box 

ton  lady  during  their  Civil  War.  She  certainly 
knew,  and  she  says  repeatedly  that  he  was  a  most 
offensive  person  of  the  lowest  origin ;  vulgar,  boor 
ish,  silly  and  ignorant.  He  became  despotic  and 
bloodthirsty.  And  he  was  ribald  in  conversation." 

Octavia  straightened  up.  Color  flew  to  her  cheeks. 
In  her  eyes  was  the  light  of  battle.  "Abraham 
Lincoln  was  a  splendid  man.  He  was  gentle,  kind 
and  brave.  He  died  for  his  country.  No  greater 
hero  ever  lived.  I  know  all  about  him." 

The  rector's  wife,  with  lips  apart  and  eyes  wide 
open,  stared  at  Lady  Octavia.  She  stared  in  silence, 
a  silence  that  was  literally  breathless;  for,  in  her 
surprise,  she  forgot  to  breathe.  Never  had  she — or 
the  Futile  Librarian — seen  their  president  display 
so  much  warmth  in  quite  so  sudden  a  manner.  Mrs. 
Wherry,  aroused  by  the  speaker's  decisive  tone, 
opened  her  eyes.  She  had  not  heard  the  names  of 
the  person  they  were  discussing  but  she  smiled  and 
nodded  approval. 

"Yes,  yes,  indeed!  A  real  hero.  An  honor  to 
England." 

There  was  an  awkward  silence.  Then,  Octavia, 
somewhat  ashamed  by  her  sudden  outburst,  smiled 
upon  the  rector's  wife  and  added,  in  a  most  pacific 
manner,  "Please  do  not  think  I  wish  to  contradict 
you.  I  cannot  help  believing  the  lady  you  mention 
was — was  perhaps  mistaken.  I  beg  your  pardon." 

The  rector's  wife  hastily  nodded  forgiveness. 
"Oh,  please  don't  think  of  it  again,  dear  Lady 


A   Lady  Thinks  205 

Octavia!  Your  defense  was  certainly  right  and 
proper.  It  is  much  to  his  credit  that  he  turned  out 
as  well  as  he  did." 

So  the  incident  was  closed.  And  the  committee 
went  on  with  its  other  business. 

Half  an  hour  later  Octavia  entered  the  shop  of 
Simeon  Blake,  the  most  ancient  structure  in  Drum- 
worth  village.  Less  than  twenty  feet  in  width,  only 
two  low  stones  in  height,  it  bore,  in  wrought  iron 
figures  beneath  its  pointed  gable,  its  date  of  birth, 
1492 — the  year  of  a  fateful  discovery.  Over  the 
door,  across  the  front  of  the  building  ran  a  faded 
sign, 

SIMEON  BLAKE, 

\ 

REPAIRING   NEATLY   DONE. 

Through  the  thick  little  Tudor  glass  window  panes 
in  the  shop's  front  was  dimly  visible  a  unicjue  as 
sortment  of  ancient  cakes.  These  cakes  were  faded, 
sunburnt  and  fly  blown.  From  the  contents  of 
this  window,  and  the  sign  above,  a  stranger  might 
infer  that  jumbles,  buns  and  Shrewsbury  cakes  were 
neatly  repaired;  that  ancient  gingerbread  and  other 
weather  beaten  dainties  from  the  baker's  oven  were 
restored  to  youth  by  Simeon  Blake.  But  these  cakes 
were  not  for  repair.  They  were  made  by  the  owner's 
wife,  now  dead  a  year  or  more,  and  were  treasured 
with  affection  by  her  faithful  husband. 

Octavia  found  nobody  in  the  little  shop.     From 


206  Pandora's   Box 

the  back  room,  however,  came  the  gentle  voice  of 
Simeon  Blake,  talking  with  a  customer.  So,  being  in 
no  haste,  and  knowing  that  Simeon  would  neglect  all 
mortal  customers  to  wait  upon  herself — a  thing  she 
always  detested — she  seated  herself  in  a  chair 
against  the  wall,  partly  in  the  shadow  of  a  project 
ing  bookcase.  In  this  venerable  shop  the  light  was 
always  dim,  even  in  brightest  weather. 

Although  familiar  with  the  varied  collection  that 
now  surrounded  her,  Octavia  never  failed  of  enter 
tainment  in  the  study  of  Simeon's  possessions.  For 
to  Simeon's  stock  in  trade  there  were  no  limitations. 
His  line  of  goods  was  modest,  but  he  dealt  in  any 
thing:  in  glassware  and  clothing,  in  cutlery  and 
books,  in  toys  and  bric-a-brac,  in  barometers  and  um 
brellas;  from  pins  to  furniture,  from  banjos  to 
coffins. 

As  Octavia's  glance  moved  idly  along  the  shelf 
she  saw  the  twin  brother — or  sister — of  the  gaudy 
little  vase  presented  to  her  that  morning  by  Ethan 
Love  joy.  And  before  she  had  recovered  from  the 
softening  influence  of  this  vulgar,  over  decorated 
little  object — for  it  recalled  a  pleasant  episode — the 
American  himself,  preceded  by  Baseborn,  walked 
into  the  shop. 

Baseborn  came  straight  to  Octavia,  wagging  his 
crooked  tail,  and  clearly  showing  his  delight  at  the 
unexpected  meeting.  Dogs  have  better  eyes  than  hu 
mans  for  seeing  in  the  dark.  Ethan  Lovejoy,  who 
was  not  observing  Baseborn's  movements,  stood 


A  Lady  Thinks  207 

for  an  instant,  as  Octavia  herself  had  done  on  en 
tering,  and  listened  to  the  voices  in  the  farther  room. 
Also,  like  her,  he  decided  to  remain  until  Simeon 
Blake  came  out.  He  leaned  against  the  counter  as 
one  who  expects  to  wait. 

That  he  thought  himself  alone  in  the  shop  was 
evident.  Octavia,  in  her  dusky  corner,  realized,  of 
course,  that  a  person  coming  in  from  the  outer  day 
light  might  fail  to  see  her.  As  he  stood  with  his 
back  against  a  show  case,  he  folded  his  arms  and 
frowned  into  space.  His  head  drooped  forward.  To 
the  person  who  happened  to  be  watching  him  it  was 
clear  that  his  thoughts  were  of  a  most  absorbing 
nature — and  depressing.  A  sadder,  more  melan 
choly  figure  she  had  rarely  seen. 

To  relieve  the  situation  and  make  known  her 
presence,  Octavia  moved  a  foot  upon  the  floor,  and 
slightly  changed  her  attitude.  Ethan's  eyes,  as  they 
opened  calmly  and  turned  in  her  direction,  showed 
no  surprise.  They  could  discern  a  face  in  the  shad 
owy  corner;  but  that  was  all.  Octavia  suspected 
this,  and  to  save  further  embarrassment  for  both, 
she  spoke.  And  in  choosing  her  words  she  remem 
bered  that  too  hasty  a  forgiveness  would  merely 
cheapen  her  in  his  eyes.  Besides,  she  was  by  no 
means  sure  that  he  deserved  forgiveness.  So,  po 
litely,  but  in  the  same  tone  and  manner  as  she  would 
have  addressed  any  stranger  in  the  village,  she  said : 

"Mr.  Blake  will  return  in  a  few  minutes." 

Ethan  Lovejoy  raised  his  hat,  and  replied  with 


208  Pandora's   Box 

equal  politeness  and  in  much  the  same  manner: 
"Thank  you.  I  will  call  again." 

Replacing  his  hat  he  turned  and  passed  out  of  the 
shop.  Through  the  thick  little  diamonds  of  Tudor 
glass  she  saw  him  cross  the  street  and  disappear 
along  the  opposite  sidewalk. 

But  Baseborn,  after  a  glance  of  surprise  at  his 
departing  benefactor,  stood  for  a  moment  looking 
up  into  Octavia's  face.  He  seemed  to  be  demanding 
some  explanation  for  this  surprisingly  brief  and  un 
finished  interview.  Receiving  no  enlightenment  from 
the  eyes— already  repenting— that  were  looking 
through  the  open  door,  he  slowly  turned  about,  and 
with  obvious  disapproval. 

Then  he  also  walked  away. 


XVII 

VARIOUS  EMOTIONS 

FROM  the  village  to  Drumworth  Castle  there 
are  two  roads.     One  follows  the  south  bank 
of  the  river,  and  the   ferryman  rows  you 
across.     The  other,  on  the  north  side,  is  farther 
from  the  river,  and  from  this  road  you  approach  the 
castle  by  a  perfectly  straight  avenue  half  a  mile  in 
length,  between  rows  of  ancient  trees,  tall  and  wide 
spreading. 

Returning  by  this  avenue,  after  the  unexpected 
meeting  at  Simeon  Blake's,  Octavia's  mind  was  still 
busy,  at  intervals,  in  deciding  on  a  suitable  punish 
ment  for  the  offending  American.  The  decision 
was  not  easy.  Such  punishment  required  tact  and  a 
delicate  touch,  for  there  was  just  a  possibility  of  his 
being  innocent.  It  also  required  firmness  and  a  rea 
sonable  severity — otherwise  the  offense  might  be  re 
peated. 

While  struggling  with  this  problem  Octavia  heard, 
behind  her,  the  feet  of  a  cantering  horse.  As  she 
turned  her  head  the  pursuer  raised  his  hat.  A  mo 
ment  later  Lord  Heps  ford  came  alongside,  dis 
mounted,  and  with  the  rein  over  his  arm  walked 
beside  her,  toward  the  castle. 
209 


2I°  Pandora's   Box 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Octavia?  You 
are  really  just  no  good  at  all." 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  in  mock  surprise.  Then 
she  smiled  on  him.  "You  don't  mean  that,  Hepsey. 
What  have  I  done  now?" 

"It's  what  you  haven't  done.  You  promised  to 
meet  us  at  Kitten's  this  morning." 

Octavia  halted.  "I  declare  I  forgot  all  about  it! 
Oh,  that's  too  bad !  Really,  honestly,  I  forgot  it  com 
pletely." 

Closing  her  eyes  for  a  moment  to  shut  out  the 
reproving  face  of  the  man  before  her,  she  saw  her 
self  comfortably  seated  in  the  embrasure  of  the  great 
window,  contented  and  happy,  with  a  Western 
barbarian  not  far  away,  at  work  on  his  drawings. 
Opening  her  eyes  and  walking  on,  "I  am  very  sorry. 
But  it  couldn't  have  made  much  difference  with  so 
large  a  party." 

"Oh,  rot!  What's  the  use  of  talking  that  way? 
It  just  spoiled  the  whole  thing — for  me.  And  you 
know  it." 

"But  Hepsey,  you  are  not  everybody." 

"I  am  a  thing  to  keep  a  promise  with ;  unless  your 
word  is  of  no  value." 

"Oh,  come  now,  that  is  very  unkind!  You  know 
I  always  keep  my  word.  On  my  honor  I  forgot  it. 
Did  you  never  forget  an  appointment?" 

"Never  when  you  were  in  it." 

"Thanks  !     That's  really  very  gallant." 

"Gallant!  Stuff!  You  know  you  are  all  the  world 


Various   Emotions 

to  me,  and  more,  too ;  that  I  would  do  anything  for 
you — and  yet  you  are  always  treating  me  in  some 
shabby  way,  as  if  I  were  a — a — " 
"A  what,  Hepsey?" 

"And   don't   call   me   Hepsey — at  least   before 
others." 

"Why  not,  pray?" 

"Because  it  sounds  like  Betsey,  and  that  is  why 
you  do  it." 

Octavia  laughed.  "Well,  perhaps  it  does.  But 
Betsey  is  a  good  name." 

"For  a  man?" 

"Don't  your  men  friends  call  you  Hepsey?" 

"Never." 

"What  do  they  call  you?" 

"Ned,  of  course.     You  know  very  well." 

"Yes,  but  when  you  came  into  the  title,  and  it's  a 
fine  old  title,  you  know,  and  such  a  splendid  estate, 
I  thought  Ned  was  too  commonplace;  that  Hepsey 
was  more  dignified  and  impressive." 

"Impressive !  Why  don't  you  call  me  'Sally'  and 
have  done  with  it?" 

"If  you  really  object  to  Hepsey  I  must  not  use  it. 
Perhaps  Hepsford  is  more  dignified." 

"The  name  is  yours,  and  whatever  goes  with  it,  if 
you  will  only  take  it." 

"Yes,  I  know.  You  are  very  kind  and  I  appre 
ciate  the  compliment.  But  the  price  is  too  high." 

"You  have  said  that  before." 

"But  you  know  I  don't  really  mean  it." 


212  Pandora's   Box 

"Then  why  not  take  it  ?  Think  how  happy  it  will 
make  me  and  all  our  people,  both  yours  and  mine. 
And  then,  besides,  you  know,  really,  Octavia,  I  am 
not  such  an  awful  price.  You  have  known  me  all 
your  life.  My  one  ambition  would  be  to  make  you 
happy." 

"Yes,  I  know  that,  Hepsey — I  beg  your  pardon — 
I  mean  Ned.  Suppose  I  call  you  Ned  Hepsey." 

"Oh,  be  serious!"  And  Lord  Hepsford  slapped 
the  side  of  his  leg  impatiently  with  his  stick. 
"You  are  a  heartless  brute,  and  that's  all  there  is 
to  it." 

Octavia  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm  and  they  stopped 
and  stood  facing  each  other.  Although  with  a  faint 
smile  on  her  lips  as  she  looked  up  at  him,  she  said, 
in  a  more  serious  tone : 

"I  am  sure  you  would  try  your  best  to  make  me 
happy,  Ned.  We  know  each  other  too  well  for  any 
doubts  on  that  score.  That  is,  I  know  you!  But 
you  don't  know  me/' 

"Stuff  and  rubbish!" 

"No,  not  stuff  and  rubbish.  A  man  never  knows 
a  woman.  We  do  not  know  ourselves.  But  I  am 
Reasonably  sure  you  are  not  the  kind  of  man  I  ought 
to  marry." 

"Really?  Am  I  too  stupid,  or  vicious,  or  gener 
ally  beastly,  or  what?" 

"Not  at  all.  There  will  be  no  better  husband  in 
England.  And  if  your  wife  is  not  a  happy  woman 
it  will  be  no  fault  of  yours." 


Various   Emotions  213 

"Then  stop  your  foolish  talk,  Octavia,  and  be  the 
happy  woman." 

"No.  Listen  a  moment.  You  think — or  seem  to 
think — that  I  am  very  clever  and  good — " 

"I  know  it" 

" — and  a  most  perfect  and  desirable  person  in 
every  way." 

He  nodded.    "Indeed  I  do!" 

"And  you  would  look  up  to  me  and  admire  me — 

"I  would." 

—and  do  whatever  I  said,  and  ask  nothing  better, 
as  you  always  have  done,  since  we  were  children." 

"I  would  continue  to  do  so  as  long  as  I  lived." 

"Well,  do  you  know,  dear  Ned,  that  I  am  not  at 
all  clever,  nor  superior  in  any  way?  I  have  been 
making  discoveries  regarding  myself.  I  am  an  ig 
norant,  snobbish,  prejudiced,  narrow-minded,  insular 
person,  with  a  stupid  British  mind." 

"Well,  by  Jove,  your  stupid  British  mind  is  good 
enough  for  me!" 

"And  I  realize  now — " 

"Since  when?" 

"Well,  it  has  come  rather  suddenly — during  the 
last  week  or  two.  But  I  do  realize,  now,  that  the 
man  I  marry  must  be  quite  different.  He  must  be 
much  wiser  than  I  am.  He  must  have  a  broader, 
bigger  mind  than  mine.  More  intellectual,  Neddy, 
than  either  you  or  me;  with  fresher  points  of  view. 
And  he  must  be  far  more  original,  and  quicker 
witted." 


214  Pandora's    Box 


"Well,  I'll  be  blowed!  Where  are  you  going  to 
get  this  chap?" 

"Instead  of  depending  upon  my  wits  and  deferring 
to  my  judgment  he  must  despise  my  mentality — po 
litely  of  course — and  ridicule  all  my  silly  ideas  and 
erroneous  beliefs.  Moreover,  he  must  have  a  live 
lier  imagination  than  any  of  my  present  suitors, 
and  quite  a  different  sense  of  humor.  Also,  and 
this  is  important,  he  must  not  be  a  gentleman  of 
leisure." 

"Oh,  let  him  be  a  gentleman!" 

To  Lord  Heps  ford  she  seemed  more  exalted  and 
farther  off  than  ever  as  she  continued,  with  a  new 
look  in  her  eyes: 

"He  must  have  ambition  and  enthusiasm.  He 
must  be  a  worker;  with  a  sincere  contempt  for  all 
injustice  and  deceit,  and  for  all  social  humbug;  in 
cluding  the  idle,  pretentious  classes  who  subsist  on 
others  and  make  no  return." 

"Hold  on,  Octavia!  Just  go  slow  for  a  minute. 
Are  you  an  anarchist?" 

She  smiled.  "No,  nor  even  a  socialist.  I  am 
merely  developing." 

"You  never  talked  this  way  before.  Where  did 
you  get  all  this  stuff?" 

A  little  color  came  into  the  lady's  cheeks  as 
she  murmured.  "Perhaps  my  mind  is  expanding." 

"Don't  let  it — if  it's  going  to  make  you  despise 
all  your  old  friends." 

"Oh  no!  Never  that!"  and  for  a  moment  she 
laid  a  hand  on  his  arm. 


Various   Emotions  215 

As  they  started  on  again  toward  the  castle,  Lord 
Heps  ford  remarked,  after  a  pause,  "I  would  like 
to  give  you  a  bit  of  advice." 

"What  is  it?" 

"When  you  find  this  thing  you  have  just  de 
scribed,  wash  him  and  have  his  hair  cut  before  you 
marry  him.  Even  then  he  will  be  the  most  offensive 
prig  in  England." 

Octavia  laughed.  "Very  likely.  Women's  heroes 
are  apt  to  be  abnormities.  I  have  probably  over 
done  this  one." 

With  an  exclamation  of  disgust  Lord  Heps  ford 
stopped  short. 

Octavia  also  stopped.     "What  is  it  ?" 

"There's  that  beast  of  a  Mowbray.  What  in 
blankety  is  he  doing  here  ?" 

"That  is  probably  just  what  he  is  saying  of  you." 

The  subject  of  these  remarks — a  man  in  riding 
togs — had  been  leaning  against  one  of  the  columns 
of  the  central  porch  of  the  castle.  He  now  started 
forward  to  meet  them.  This  person  was  the  Hon. 
James  Evelyn  Mowbray,  a  clever  young  man  with 
political  aspirations.  His  wealth  and  family  con 
nections,  together  with  his  own  talents,  gave  prom 
ise  of  an  unusual  future.  It  may  have  been  the 
thought  of  these  things  that  caused  Lord  Heps  ford 
to  mutter  with  a  frown : 

"Gad!  It  can't  be  Mowbray  you  have  been 
describing !" 

"No.    Don't  worry  over  Mr.  Mowbray.    Besides, 


216  Pandora's    Box 

he  could  never  develop  into  a  nice,  reliable  anar 
chist." 

During  the  next  hour,  Octavia,  on  the  terrace 
with  her  two  callers,  became,  at  moments,  gently 
astonished  by  her  own  state  of  mind.  She  made  the 
curious  discovery  that  these  two  men,  instead  of  di 
verting  her  were  merely  creating  a  desire  for  an 
other  kind  of  conversation.  And  she  realized,  with 
a  touch  of  mortification,  that  their  earnest  efforts 
to  entertain  her  and  to  anticipate  her  wishes,  were 
far  less  satisfying  than  the  dissenting  opinions  and 
the  friendly  ridicule  of  the  busy  American  in  the 
far  away  corner  of  the  castle.  And,  worst  of  all, 
this  stranger  had  ended  by  addressing  her  in  verse 
whose  impertinent  familiarity  she  would  never  have 
pardoned  in  either  of  the  two  gentlemen  now  pres 
ent.  And  she  knew  that  neither  of  these  two  gentle 
men  would  dream  of  such  presumption. 

Yet  she  missed  the  presence  of  the  sinner ! 

But  Octavia  was  wise  enough  to  suspect,  in  jus 
tice  to  the  two  gentlemen  now  present,  that  she  was 
principally  indebted  to  the  American  for  what  she 
had  always  needed  and  rarely  enjoyed,  a  frank  and 
unconventional  intercourse  with  the  outer  world, 
with  honest  opinions  from  those  who — apparently 
at  least — had  nothing  to  ask  and  nothing  to  fear. 
Nevertheless,  she  clearly  recognized  the  necessity  of 
discipline  for  the  offending  barbarian. 


Various  Emotions  2I7 

While  at  work  among  her  flowers,  the  next  morn 
ing,  she  looked  occasionally  toward  the  little  door 
way  that  led  to  the  Garden  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty. 
But  she  resisted  all  temptation  to  enter.  A  morn 
ing  to  himself  might  do  an  architect  good.  It  would 
be  a  lesson;  and  give  him  time  to  reflect.  Even  an 
American  could  not  fail  to  perceive  the  meaning  of 
her  absence. 

So  during  the  next  twenty- four  hours  she  shunned 
the  invader. 

The  following  morning,  however,  she  opened  the 
little  gate — or  door — passed  along  the  cloistered 
archway  and  stepped  out  into  the  neglected  garden. 
The  usual  silence  reigned.  Before  entering  the  Old 
Hall  she  stood  for  a  moment  surveying  the  weedy 
paths,  the  untrimmed  box  and  the  overgrown  yew 
trees.  It  was,  by  rights,  a  melancholy  little  garden, 
but — how  pleasant  its  memories! 

Now,  she  must  be  severe  and  distant — even  cruel 
perhaps — to  maintain  a  decent  dignity.  This  archi 
tect  was  to  understand  clearly  that  the  present  visit 
was  purely  architectural — merely  to  inspect  the 
drawings  of  the  castle. 

Thus  braced  with  firm  resolve,  she  passed  be 
neath  the  ancient  portal.  As  she  placed  a  foot  upon 
the  lowest  of  the  five  steps  that  led  up  to  the  door  of 
the  Old  Hall  she  stopped,  in  surprise.  The  door  was 
closed.  Was  this  a  hint  ?  Had  he  the  impertinence 
to  be  angry?  Was  he  within?  Was  this  door,  in 


2i8  Pandora's    Box 

her  own  castle,  shut  against  her  ?  In  her  cheeks  she 
felt  the  tingling  of  a  sudden  indignation.  While 
standing,  for  a  brief  moment,  irresolute,  her  eyes 
were  drawn  to  the  one  spot  of  light  in  the  massive 
door.  It  was  the  key-hole,  a  yawning,  ancient  key 
hole  of  three  centuries  ago.  Between  pride  and  cu 
riosity  she  hesitated,  then  silently  ascended  the  few 
stone  steps,  and  peered  within. 

Such  were  the  liberal  dimensions  of  this  orifice 
that  nearly  the  whole  interior  of  the  Hall  could  be 
seen.  And  what  she  saw  caused  Octavia  a  peculiar 
sensation;  unfamiliar,  and  disheartening. 

The  heavy  table  was  still  there,  but  nothing  was 
on  it.  All  the  drawings  were  gone.  And,  as  she 
listened,  there  was  perfect  silence. 

Gently  she  tried  the  door,  and  found  it  locked. 
Then,  after  another  look,  she  straightened  up,  and 
for  a  time,  in  this  dimly  lighted  place,  Octavia  stood 
— and  reflected. 

Yes.  He  was  gone.  She  had  already  guessed 
from  the  state  of  his  drawings,  together  with  a  care 
less  remark  during  her  last  visit,  that  he  was  linger 
ing  over  work  that  was  practically  finished. 

As  she  descended  the  steps  and  re-entered  the  old 
garden  a  frown  had  come  into  her  face,  with  a 
tightening  of  the  lips.  And  she  walked  more  slowly 
than  usual.  This  Ethan  Love  joy  had  come  into  her 
life — and  gone  out  of  it.  The  episode  was  finished. 
And  it  was  a  proper  ending.  If  any  man  after  com 
mitting  such  an  impertinence — such  an  inexcusable 


Various  Emotions  2I9 

display  of  ill  breeding — could  run  away  when  re 
buked — why,  then,  his  absence  was  not  to  be  re 
gretted. 

And  so,  with  a  face  of  unwonted  severity,  she 
left  the  garden. 


XVIII 

THE  PEARLY  GATES 

WHEN  Auntie  George,  at  lunch  that  day, 
asked  Octavia  if  she  were  not  feeling 
well,  the  niece  replied  less  amiably  than 
usual :  "Of  course  I  am!  Why  should  you  ask  such 
a  question?" 

"Why,  my  dear,  I  merely  noticed  that  you  seemed 
to  have  no  appetite." 

"One  cannot  be  always  hungry. "  But  a  moment 
later  Octavia  apologized  for  her  manner. 

She  dropped  in  upon  Simeon  Blake  during  the 
afternoon,  to  get  the  parasol  whose  handle  he  had 
been  repairing.  During  their  brief  discourse  she 
seemed  to  Simeon  somewhat  absent  minded ;  partic 
ularly  when  she  left  the  parasol  and  her  purse  upon 
his  counter  and  started  to  walk  away  with  Captain 
Hartley's  briarwood  pipe.  And  upon  his  calling  at 
tention  to  the  error  her  ladyship  seemed  quite  em 
barrassed. 

From  Simeon  Blake  Octavia  returned  to  the 
motor  and  took  therefrom  a  basket  of  hothouse 
grapes;  then  she  walked  down  a  side  street,  to  the 
little  house  of  Sally  Pindar.  Sally  Pindar's  mother^ 

220 


The  Pearly  Gates  221 

sixteen  years  ago,  was  maid  to  Octavia' s  mother. 

Sally,  this  afternoon,  was  lying  upon  a  couch, 
with  bandages  around  her  neck  and  hands,  suffering 
more  from  shock  than  from  very  serious  burns. 
That  the  conversation  should  turn  to  her  rescuer 
was  not  surprising. 

"He  lodged  with  us,  as  your  ladyship  knows, 
perhaps.  He  was  always  joking,  and  so  very  amus 
ing  in  his  exaggerated  gratitude  for  any  little  ser 
vice  I  rendered.  He  said,  one  day,  'If  there  is  any 
thing  on  earth  I  can  do  for  you,  tell  me.  If  you  are 
in  fire  or  water  just  beckon,  and  I  will  come  if  I 
am  alive/  ' 

Octavia  smiled,  "It  was  almost  prophetic,  wasn't 
it?" 

"Yes,  was  it  not!  And  after  the  fire,  as  I  was 
lying  here,  he  said  to  me  in  his  joking  way,  'Of 
course  I  climbed  up.  If  you  had  not  fainted  you 
would  surely  have  beckoned/  ' 

And  Sally  Pindar  drew  a  long  breath  and  laughed, 
a  hysterical  little  laugh ;  and  there  were  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

Octavia  also  laughed,  sympathetically. 

After  a  pause  Sally  murmured,  "Of  course  one 
can  never  repay  such  a  deed.  But  I  shall  never  for 
get.  Already  we  miss  him — very  much." 

"Has  he  left  you?" 

"Yes,  very  suddenly.  He  must  have  received  bad 
news  from  home,  for  he  packed  up  last  night.  And 
this  morning  he — he  went." 


222  Pandora's    Box 

Octavia  stood  up,  then  moved  across  the  room 
and  back  again.  Seating  herself  once  more  by  the 
couch  there  was  further  conversation:  but  on  other 
subjects.  Then  the  visitor  departed. 

It  seemed  Fate  had  resolved  that  Octavia  should 
be  pursued  that  day — and  overtaken — by  memories 
of  Ethan  Love  joy.  After  leaving  Sally  Pindar  she 
discovered,  on  the  main  street  of  the  village,  the  un 
mistakable  little  figure  of  Dr.  Wherry,  standing 
with  folded  arms  in  front  of  the  ruins  of  the  recent 
fire.  This  diminutive  gentleman  was  somewhat  pe 
culiar  in  appearance.  His  large,  square,  well  shaped 
head  rested — with  no  neck  to  speak  of — upon  a  pair 
of  narrow  shoulders.  In  former  days  his  hair  and 
eyebrows  were  a  lively  red.  Now  they  were  of 
varied  tints,  brown  grey  and  a  faded  red  with  the 
grey  predominating.  A1  more  benevolent  face  one 
seldom  met,  nor  one  wiser  or  more  cheerful.  Upon 
the  blackened  walls  he  was  gazing  in  a  brown  study, 
so  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts  that  he  failed  to 
notice  Octavia  until  she  stood  beside  him.  Then 
his  face  lit  up  and  he  shook  her  hand. 

"How  do  you  do?  How  do  you  do?  Sorry  to 
see  you  looking  so  well.  Bad  business  for  doctors." 

"It's  your  own  fault.     You  hardly  ever  come  to 


see  us." 


"I  like  that!    Lunched  with  you  a  week  ago." 
"Yes,  but  a  week  is  a  long  absence  from  one's 
best  friends." 

"True,   true!     Right  you  are,   Octavia.      Your 


The  Pearly  Gates  223 

heart's  in  the  right  place — so  is  mine.  If  we  were 
alone  in  a  dark  corner,  instead  of  out  here  in  the 
street,  I  would  let  you  embrace  me.  Ton  my  soul 
I  would!" 

From  the  very  hour  of  Octavia's  birth  she  and 
this  little  man  had  been  warmest  friends.  As  for 
comradeship  and  intimate  knowledge  of  each  other, 
Dr.  Wherry  was  closer  than  her  own  father.  Be 
tween  them,  forms  and  ceremony  had  never  existed. 

With  a  gesture  toward  the  scene  of  disaster,  he 
said,  "I  was  trying  to  decide  when  you  came  along 
whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry." 

"Oh !  You  horrid  man !  Of  course  you  are  sorry ! 
Didn't  you  love  that  old  building?" 

"I  did.  But  when  you  interrupted  us,  Dr.  Wherry 
and  the  horrid  man  were  discussing  whether  the 
moral  gain  did  not  outweigh  the  material  damage." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  mean  that  the  inhabitants  of  this  village  en 
joyed  an  exhibition  of  moral  and  physical  courage, 
of  real  heroism,  such  as  they  are  not  likely  to  see 
again.  And  I  believe,  that  as  an  uplifter  of  stand 
ards  it  has  done  this  little  community  more  good 
than  the  further  existence  of  the  rickety  old  build 
ing/' 

"You  mean  the— the— " 

"The  rescue  of  Sally  Pindar.    Did  you  see  it?" 

Octavia  nodded. 

"Did  you  ever  see  anything  finer?" 

"No." 


224  Pandora's    Box 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  more  quietly  heroic  deed, 
with  no  prospect  of  recompense?" 

Octavia  shook  her  head.    "No,  never." 

"And  when  you  saw  him  roasting  at  that  burning 
window,  still  holding  the  burden — which  one  would 
naturally  drop  to  save  himself — didn't  it  make  you 
a  little  thumpy  about  the  heart  ?" 

Again  Octavia  nodded. 

"It  was  live  or  die  together.  And  he  meant  to  do 
it.  That's  what  brought  a  lump  in  my  throat.  And 
I  am  gulping  yet."  The  little  figure  straightened  up 
and  drew  a  long  breath.  "Gad !  I  have  wanted  to 
climb  ladders  ever  since  and  do  big  things  myself." 

Octavia  twined  an  arm  in  one  of  his.  "You 
needn't  feel  badly  about  it.  You  have  saved  more 
lives  than  he  has." 

"Yes,  but  I  haven't  flung  away  my  own  life 
every  time.  That's  the  point.  And  the  immortal 
glory  of  the  whole  business  was  that  he  didn't  want 
to  do  it.  Just  before  he  went  up  he  came  and 
handed  me  his  coat;  asked  me  to  answer  a  letter 
in  the  pocket  if  the  ladder  collapsed,  and  shook  his 
head  in  a  solemn  way  and  said :  The  fool  thing  will 
never  hold  us  both.'  "  And  Dr.  Wherry  added,  with 
an  emphatic  gesture,  "As  to  courage,  I  consider  that 
the  real  article." 

"And  he  is  such  a  modest  chap  too!"  the  little 
doctor  went  on.  "Used  to  come  to  the  house.  Quite 
a  character.  Full  of  wisdom — also  truth  and  non 
sense.  You  would  have  liked  him.  But  he  has  gone 
away,  you  know,  for  good." 


The   Pearly  Gates  225 

"Yes— I— I— so  Sally  Pindar  just  said." 

"Left  very  suddenly,  poor  boy!  Some  trouble,  I 
fancy." 

Then,  as  Dr.  Wherry  chanced  to  look  up  into 
Octavia's  eyes  he  experienced  a  mild  surprise.  As 
these  eyes  now  looked  down  into  his  own,  earnest 
ly  as  if  demanding  more,  they  spoke  so  plainly  of 
distress,  of  something  the  lips  refused  to  utter,  that 
Dr.  Wherry,  who  was  not  born  yesterday — being 
sixty-nine  years  old — received  a  sudden  illumina 
tion. 

He  backed  away  a  step  and  frowned,  as  a  stern 
parent.  "Well,  what  is  it?  No  secrets,  now." 

Octavia's  eyebrows  went  up  as  in  surprise.  But 
color  had  come  into  her  cheeks.  "Secrets?  Why, 
what  do  you  mean?" 

Dr.  Wherry's  frown  grew  sterner.  After  a  mo 
ment's  pause,  he  said :  "I  know  something  else  about 
him  too.  Can  you  keep  a  secret  ?" 

"Yes." 

As  he  studied  her  face,  his  frown  vanished,  his 
eyes  twinkled  through  his  crooked — always  crooked 
— spectacles.  Then,  tapping  her  arm  with  a  fore 
finger  he  whispered:  "So  can  I";  and  he  wheeled 
about  and  hurried  away.  After  a  dozen  steps, 
however,  he  looked  around  over  his  shoulder, 
without  stopping,  and  caught  Octavia's  offended 
eyes.  With  a  wave  of  a  hand  and  something 
that  resembled  a  wink  he  raised  his  hat  and  was 
gone. 


226  Pandora's    Box 

On  reaching  the  castle  Octavia  went  directly  to 
her  own  chamber.  Instead  of  removing  her  hat 
with  the  usual  respect  shown  for  that  creation,  she 
tossed  it  recklessly  toward  the  bed.  Missing  the  bed 
it  fell  to  the  floor.  But  she  had  already  turned 
away  and  was  confronting  herself,  unintentionally, 
in  the  cheval  mirror.  The  face  that  returned  her 
frown  was  evidently  not  inviting,  for  she  wheeled 
about  and  moved  toward  the  window.  After  stand 
ing  for  a  moment  looking  out  over  the  pleasant 
landscape — but  seeing  nothing — she  obeyed,  invol 
untarily,  the  mysterious  impulse  that  so  often  move'd 
her  when  the  architect  was  in  her  thoughts.  She 
turned  her  eyes  to  the  empty  wall  space  where  the 
forgotten  portrait  once  had  hung.  For  a  moment 
she  tried,  as  she  had  tried  many  times  before,  to 
recall  the  departed  face.  At  present,  however,  she 
was  not  in  the  mood  to  waste  time  on  psychological 
puzzles.  Turning  impatiently  away  she  threw  her 
self  into  a  chair. 

Octavia  believed  that  were  she  really  the  garden 
er's  daughter,  Ethan  Lovejoy  would  still  be  here. 
She  knew,  and  she  struggled  in  vain  to  escape  the 
knowledge,  that  his  pride — of  its  kind — was  as 
great  as  her  own;  that  a  fateful  gulf  existed  be 
tween  a  snub,  on  equal  terms,  from  a  gardener's 
daughter  and  a  snub  from  a  daughter  of  the  Earl 
of  Drumworth. 

In  a  colorless  sunset  the  day  was  slowly  fading. 
During  the  next  hour,  in  the  gathering  gloom  of  her 


The  Pearly  Gates  227 

chamber,  Octavia,  with  folded  hands,  gazed  out  into 
the  west. 

At  last,  when  the  day  was  ended,  with  Octavia's 
head  upon  the  pillow,  her  brain  so  persisted  in  vivid 
rehearsals  of  those  mornings  in  the  Baronial  Hall 
that  sleep  was  driven  away.  The  clock  upon  her 
mantel  struck  one  o'clock — and  two  o'clock — and 
her  mind,  now  tired  and  feverish,  was  wandering,  at 
intervals,  to  other  worlds  and  spheres — everywhere 
except  the  land  of  Nod.  Even  the  wind  outside,  as 
it  moaned  about  the  castle  walls,  seemed  an  element 
of  her  own  spirit,  as  if  wafting  her  away. 

To  rise  in  the  air  by  a  mere  effort  of  will,  and 
float  like  a  bird  high  above  the  earth  is  enjoyable. 
And  there  is  exaltation  of  spirit  in  feeling  that  you 
can  soar  to  any  height,  and  remain  there,  if  desired. 
But  to  discover  that  you  are  soaring  against  your 
will,  upward  and  forever  upward,  through  clouds 
and  mist  and  sunshine,  turns  joy  to  apprehension. 
And  when  Octavia,  after  a  swift  ascent,  found  her 
self  before  the  gates  of  heaven,  she  was  seriously 
displeased — and  somewhat  nervous.  There  sat  St. 
Peter  beside  the  entrance,  with  keys  in  his  hand 
exactly  as  represented  in  a  painting  at  the  Vatican. 
In  the  lines  of  his  mantle — as  in  the  Vatican  paint 
ing — there  was  dignity  and  repose. 

As  Octavia's  arrival  produced  no  impression  she 
spoke,  and  told  him  politely  she  would  like  to  enter. 
Turning  his  head  and  looking  up,  he  raised  his 


228  Pandora's   Box 

bushy  grey  eyebrows  as  if  in  surprise.  He  inquired 
her  name,  which  she  gave  him.  Then  he  arose, 
and  as  he  did  so,  his  mantle  seemed  to  shrink  in  an 
unnatural  manner,  and  left  him  standing  in  a  linen 
blouse  such  as  French  workmen  wear,  reaching 
nearly  to  his  knees,  and  standing  away  from  his 
body,  like  the  skirt  of  a  ballet-girl.  His  grey 
trousers  were  turned  up  at  the  ankles,  showing  dark 
blue  socks  dotted  with  yellow  fleurs-de-lis.  His 
shoes  were  of  russet  leather.  "You  cannot  enter 
here,"  he  said,  "this  heaven  is  only  for  Americans." 

"Then  where  is  the  English  heaven?"  she  asked: 
and  to  her  surprise  St.  Peter  shook  his  head,  and 
told  her,  in  a  sneering  manner,  there  was  no  English 
heaven.  Octavia  was  indignant.  And  she  protest 
ed.  "It  cannot  be  possible  that  only  Americans  have 
a  heaven;  that  all  other  people  are  ignored,  or  for 
gotten  !" 

As  she  tried  to  speak  rapidly  and  with  emphasis 
she  began  to  jumble  her  words — her  voice  growing 
fainter  and  fainter  until  she  could  say  nothing, 
merely  opening  and  shutting  her  mouth,  no  sound 
coming  forth.  She  realized  that  she  was  a  ridicu 
lous  spectacle.  Her  mortification  increased  when 
St.  Peter,  with  a  contemptuous  smile,  merely  turned 
away.  As  he  resumed  his  seat,  his  former  mantle 
with  its  lines  of  dignity  and  repose,  returned  and 
folded  naturally  about  him. 

Again  he  resembled  his  portrait  in  the  Vatican 
paintings.  Octavia,  in  her  voiceless  agony,  strug- 


The  Pearly  Gates  229 

gling  for  speech,  noticed  the  great  wall  before  her 
had  suddenly  become  transparent,  as  if  built  of 
glass;  and  she  saw  within,  on  the  other  side,  long 
rows  of  draughtsmen  reaching  far  away  into  space, 
all  standing  on  stools,  all  whistling  and  beating 
time  with  T  squares  to  their  own  music,  which  re 
sembled  the  moaning  of  the  wind.  These  figures 
were  all  alike,  and  every  head  was  Abraham  Lin 
coln's.  Then,  as  she  looked,  they  all  straightened  up, 
like  one  man.  All  turned  toward  her,  and  every  face 
became  the  face  of  Ethan  Lovejoy.  Again  and  again 
she  tried  to  call  out  to  them,  but  in  vain.  The  faces, 
for  a  moment,  stared  coldly  at  her,  then  with  con 
temptuous  indifference  turned  away  and  continued 
their  whistling.  But  the  whistling  was  low — and 
melancholy. 

Again  she  approached  St.  Peter,  and  she  saw 
that  he  also  was  at  work  on  a  drawing,  a  drawing 
of  Drumworth  Castle.  But  he  motioned  her  away 
without  even  looking  up. 

At  that  moment  came  a  ray  of  hope.  Not  two 
yards  distant,  passing  before  her  as  he  approached 
the  pearly  gates,  walked  Baseborn !  He  walked  with 
an  air  of  confidence,  head  up,  wagging  his  distorted 
tail. 

Then  Octavia,  remembering  his  fidelity  and  his 
persistent,  irrepressible  adoration  of  herself,  made 
a  superhuman  effort  to  recover  her  voice.  This 
time  she  succeeded,  and  she  cried  aloud  to  Baseborn. 
But  her  heart  became  numb  when,  instead  of  a  de- 


23°  Pandora's   Box 

lighted  greeting,  Baseborn,  with  the  slightest  turn 
of  his  head,  regarded  her  for  the  briefest  moment 
with  unqualified  disdain,  and  continued  his  prog 
ress.  Then  indeed  she  felt  herself  an  isolated 
being,  a  thing  apart,  ignored,  despised  of  all — to 
remain  forever  outside  the  walls,  a  wanderer  in 
empty  space. 

Baseborn,  after  his  one  disdainful  glance  in 
which  he  clearly  repudiated  all  acquaintance  with 
her,  approached  the  pearly  gates.  By  unseen  hands 
the  gates  were  opened  wide.  And  Baseborn  in  a 
flood  of  light,  as  an  important  personage,  passed 
within.  Strains  of  distant  music,  for  a  moment, 
reached  Octavia's  ears.  This  music  bore  a  strange 
resemblance  to  the  moaning  of  a  tempest.  The 
pearly  gates  again  were  closed,  coming  together 
with  a  startling  noise. 

So  loud  was  this  noise,  so  very  real,  that  Octavia 
sat  up  in  bed.  Through  the  open  window  came  a 
gust  of  wind.  The  casement,  suddenly  unfastened, 
had  slammed  against  the  wall. 


XIX 

A  PAIR  OF  EYES 

THE  month  of  June  and  a  part  of  July  Oo 
tavia  spent  in  London.    During  this  visit,  in 
the  height  of  the  season,  a  letter  from  her 
father  came  to  Drumworth  Castle. 

MY  DEAR  AUNT:  Your  questions  regarding  Octavia  are 
easily  answered.  She  is  in  the  best  of  spirits,  having  the 
gayest  sort  of  a  time.  In  fact  I  have  never  seen  her  soo  full 
of  life.  Jolly,  no  end.  Always  on  the  go  and  can't  get  too 
much  of  it  I  don't  pretend  to  keep  up  with  her.  As  to  men, 
she  has  her  pick  of  them.  Should  say  the  two  slaves  who  had 
the  inside  track  were  Rutherton  and  a  German  prince.  But 
she  mustn't  marry  out  of  England.  You  needn't  worry  over 
that.  Tell  Dad  the  Admiral  accepts  his  invitation  and  will 
turn  up  at  Drum  in  August. 

Yours  affectionately, 

ROBERT. 

Late  in  July,  about  a  week  after  Octavia's  re 
turn,  a  conversation  occurred  in  the  library  between 
Lady  Georgiana  and  the  old  earl's  fingers. 

Said  the  lady,  "I  have  never  seen  Octavia  so 
vivacious  and  light  hearted/' 

"Only  at  times/'  said  the  fingers.  "There  are 
231 


Pandora's   Box 

other  moments  when  she  is — different.    Dull,  silent. 
Something  on  her  mind." 

Auntie  George  shook  her  head.  'That  means 
nothing.  Hers  is  a  mercurial  nature.  She  was  al 
ways  that  way." 

"But  she  doesn't  look  well,"  moved  the  fingers. 
"Hollow  under  the  eyes.  Color  too  delicate.  Not 
so  well  as  she  ought  to  be." 

"That's  only  fatigue  after  all  her  gaieties.  She 
will  pick  up  again,  here  in  the  country." 

But  the  fingers  disappeared  into  the  earl's  coat 
pocket,  unconvinced. 

Again,  in  August,  also  in  October,  conversations, 
substantially  the  same,  were  repeated,  the  grand 
father  still  in  doubt.  For,  Octavia  being  a  change 
able  person  by  nature,  habit  and  preference,  was  be 
coming  more  than  ever  a  puzzle  to  her  family. 
"What  I  don't  understand,"  said  the  fingers,  "is 
why,  with  such  good  spirits,  she  should  get  thin  and 
nervous." 

Although  Auntie  George  still  thought  the  grand 
father  overanxious  she  suggested  that  unless  there 
was  a  change  for  the  better  they  consult  Dr. 
Wherry.  There  did  come  a  change,  but  not  for  the 
better.  It  came  early  in  November,  and  suddenly. 
It  also  came — so  far  as  concerned  the  earl  and 
Auntie  George — mysteriously. 

Great  crises  in  life,  those  decisive  moments  that 
prove  turning  points  in  our  careers,  seem  to  prefer, 
as  a  rule,  to  meet  us  in  a  casual  way  when  least  ex- 


A   Pair  of  Eyes  233 

pected.  So  it  was  with  Octavia  on  a  certain  Novem 
ber  afternoon  when,  with  absent  mind  and  languid 
step,  she  entered  a  familiar  little  room  near  the  main 
hall  of  the  castle. 

During  recent  generations  it  had  served  as  a  coat- 
room.  In  earlier  times  her  fighting  ancestors  had 
used  it  as  an  armory,  for  their  axes,  maces,  swords 
and  spears.  And  even  at  this  late  day  one  cross 
bow,  sole  remnant  of  its  departed  brothers,  still 
hangs  upon  the  wall.  In  one  corner  is  a  small 
stone  oven  built  for  boiling  water,  melting  lead  or 
other  deterrents  for  dropping  on  besiegers'  heads. 
Three  windows  in  a  row,  each  just  too  narrow  for 
an  invader's  entrance,  look  out  upon  the  terrace. 
These  windows  existed  a  few  centuries  before  the 
terrace  was  built.  At  present,  however,  in  place  of 
swords  and  spears  and  battle  axes  were  less  hostile 
weapons ;  canes,  hats,  umbrellas,  caps  and  overcoats ; 
waterproofs,  overshoes,  and  various  motor  gar 
ments.  It  was  here  that  Octavia  had  always  kept 
her  garden  hat  and  basket,  and  the  blue  checked 
apron.  As  she  was  looking,  this  afternoon,  in  a 
dim  corner  for  a  certain  mantle,  her  eyes  were 
drawn  to  a  piece  of  paper  lying  at  the  bottom  of 
the  garden  basket.  This  basket  had  not  been  used 
since  her  last  visit  to  the  Old  Hall,  that  final  morn 
ing  in  the  month  of  June.  She  took  out  the  paper 
and  unfolded  it,  then  moved  to  the  window  for  bet 
ter  light.  When  she  saw  its  contents  she  started 
slightly,  and  the  color  came  to  her  cheeks — then  left 


234  Pandora's    Box 

them,  a  trifle  paler.  She  was  reading  Ethan  Love- 
joy's  letter — the  wretched  verse  from  Pandora's 
box;  the  fateful  lines  that  had  put  an  end  to  her 
architectural  mornings.  Again  she  read  them,  slowly 
and  in  calmer  spirit.  Again,  however,  came  a  feel 
ing  of  resentment  at  the  words, 

"Just  our  Kosyie  Benche  with  moonlight 
And  a  garden  breathing  kisses." 

But  now,  six  months  later,  the  resentment  at  their 
familiarity  was  mingled  with  other  emotions. 

As  her  eyes  rested  upon  the  written  words  she 
began  to  notice,  after  the  first  surprise  of  her  dis 
covery,  that  the  sheet  of  note-paper  between  her 
fingers  was  yellow  with  age :  also  that  the  ink  had 
faded.  She  remembered  now  that  when  unfolding 
the  note,  months  ago,  she  was  struck  by  its  appar 
ent  antiquity.  Then,  however,  she  believed  this 
effect  of  age  to  be  a  part  of  Ethan  Lovejoy's  joke. 
But  now,  examining  it  more  carefully,  she  found 
that  one  folding  of  the  note  still  showed  the  stain 
and  dust  of  long  exposure;  that  certain  portions  of 
the  paper  were  yellower  than  others,  and  that  the 
ink  was  the  peculiar  color  she  had  seen  only  in  very 
old  documents.  And  why  should  Ethan  Love  joy, 
she  reasoned,  even  if  he  had  found  this  ancient 
scrap  of  paper,  why  should  he  take  such  trouble 
with  his  ink?  And  even  if  his  joke  succeeded,  what 
purpose  in  this  imitation  of  an  ancient  writing?  It 


A  Pair  of  Eyes  235 

added  nothing  to  the  wit  of  the  effusion.  When, 
however,  she  read  again  these  last  words, 

From  her  False  Poet  but 

Trew  Lovir, 

E.  L. 

there  seemed  a  possibility  that  he  wished  to  create 
an  atmosphere  in  harmony  with  the  old  inscription 
of  the  lovers'  bench. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  all  evidence  to  the  contrary,  she 
could  not  avoid  the  belief  that  in  these  words  some 
mystery  was  hidden.  She  recalled  the  condition 
of  a  letter  she  had  recently  discovered,  on  the  top  of 
a  picture  frame  in  a  disused  chamber  of  the  castle. 
This  letter — from  the  Duke  of  Wellington  to  her 
great-grandfather — had  lain  there  sixty  years.  Its 
yellow  tinge  and  faded  ink,  its  odor,  its  discolored 
edges  and  dusty  top  were  exactly  like  this  piece  of 
paper  in  her  hand.  But  Ethan  Lovejoy's  own  ini 
tials  at  the  end  seemed  to  fix  the  authorship.  To 
Octavia,  in  her  present  mood,  even  this  was  not  con 
clusive.  E  and  L  might  stand  for  many  names  be 
sides  Ethan  Love  joy. 

Having  doubts,  she  acted  upon  a  sudden  resolve. 
She  would  investigate  Pandora's  box.  Important 
discoveries  might  result.  Stranger  things  had  hap 
pened. 

Five  minutes  later,  with  the  clumsy  key  of  the 
Baronial  Hall  in  her  hand,  she  entered  the  Garden 
of  the  Sleeping  Beauty.  There,  to  her  surprise, 


Pandora's   Box 

she  found  the  door  of  the  Old  Hall  wide  open.  But 
the  surprise  was  brief,  for  she  remembered  that  this 
was  Wednesday,  the  day  when  tourists  were  ad 
mitted  to  the  castle. 

Pausing  in  the  doorway  she  surveyed,  with  melan 
choly  eyes,  the  spacious,  silent  room,  and  she  drifted 
back,  in  spirit,  to  those  June  mornings — the  sunniest 
in  her  memory.  For  the  morning  sunshine  could,  as 
we  know,  flood  the  Old  Hall  through  the  lofty 
eastern  window.  But  in  the  afternoon,  when  sun 
shine  had  departed  for  the  day,  there  was  a  soberer 
light.  The  place  became  less  radiant.  The  gloom 
in  remoter  corners  and  high  up  among  the  trusses 
of  the  open  timbered  roof  grew  solemn  and  mys 
terious.  The  armor  and  the  weapons,  the  portraits 
and  the  banners,  all  assumed  a  graver,  more  serious 
air ;  more  frowning  and  impressively  historic. 

Slowly  along  the  Hall  Octavia  moved  to  the  great 
window  and  dropped  into  her  old  seat.  Then, 
with  a  sigh,  she  leaned  back  against  the  wall  and 
closed  her  eyes.  The  silence  invited  dreams.  Gone 
were  the  roses,  the  sunshine,  the  perfume  from  the 
old  garden.  There  was  no  whistling,  nor  the  hum 
ming  of  familiar  airs;  nor  the  click  of  a  triangle 
against  a  T  square.  The  drawings  and  the  draughts 
man,  all  had  vanished.  But,  with  closed  eyes,  she 
dreamed  them  back  again.  Even  Baseborn  she  re 
called,  in  spirit,  and  imagined  him  sitting  on  the 
floor  in  a  bar  of  sunshine,  staring  up  at  her  with 
his  ugly,  disreputable,  adoring  face.  But  these  were 


A  Pair  of  Eyes  237 

dreams.  The  silent  Hall  seemed  a  deserted  play 
house,  long  after  the  play  was  finished;  with  the 
hero  and  the  heroine  but  fading  memories.  And 
Octavia  realized  in  the  silence  of  this  deserted  place 
— this  tomb  of  perfect  days — the  enduring  influence 
in  her  own  life  of  those  hours  with  the  vanished 
draughtsman.  She  could  see,  now,  they  had  opened 
to  her  girlish  vision  a  new  horizon. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  there  were  tears.  And 
through  the  tears  her  eyes  saw  an  unexpected  thing. 
They  encountered  at  her  feet,  and  apparently  in  the 
flesh,  what  she  had  just  been  seeing  in  fancy — the 
figure  of  Baseborn !  Surely  it  was  the  living  Base- 
born,  with  the  same  ugly  visage,  and  the  same  ador 
ing  gaze.  As  their  eyes  met  his  tail  began  to  wag. 
That  he  had  followed  her  unobserved  was,  of 
course,  the  only  explanation  of  his  presence.  Oc 
tavia  might  have  reasoned  that  to  a  creature 
so  supernaturally  plain  as  Baseborn  supernatural 
methods  might  be  in  order.  With  ears  pricked  up 
and  head  to  one  side,  inquiringly,  he  ventured 
nearer.  Her  first  impulse,  stirred  by  memories  he 
awakened,  was  to  pat  him,  and  be  cordial.  But 
with  a  second  look  into  his  shocking  face  she  realized 
that  he  was  too  utterly  plebeian  for  closer  friendship. 
Anything  like  intimacy  with  a  dog  of  such  exterior 
was  simply  unthinkable.  Baseborn  himself  seemed 
to  read  her  thoughts.  He  paused.  Anxiously  he 
studied  her  face.  If  one  could  judge  from  the 
slower  movement  of  his  tail  he  divined  her  antipa- 


238  Pandora's    Box 

thy.  Into  his  honest,  inquiring  eyes  came  a  look 
that  went  straight  to  Octavia's  heart.  She  blushed 
— with  shame.  Then  she  stroked  his  vulgar  head 
and  spoke  pleasant  words.  Had  angels  from 
heaven  suddenly  descended  and  crowned  him  with 
immortal  glory  his  delight  could  not  have  been 
greater — nor  so  great,  perhaps.  Forward  and  back 
he  bounced,  emitting  peculiar  but  ecstatic  grunts.  It 
seemed  to  Octavia  that  he  might  explode  with  grati 
tude. 

But  suddenly  her  attention  was  taken  from  the 
bouncing  Baseborn.  She  straightened  up  and 
frowned.  Voices  from  the  garden  reached  her  ears. 
She  had  forgotten  the  tourists.  In  another  moment 
the  unwelcome  intruders  would  be  here.  At  thought 
of  meeting  them  she  shuddered.  Glancing  swiftly 
about  her  in  the  forlorn  hope  of  escape  she  made  a 
decision.  This  decision,  as  it  turned  out,  proved 
of  some  importance  in  Octavia's  life.  Had  she  de 
cided  otherwise — to  return  and  meet  the  tourists — 
any  further  continuance  of  this  history  would  be 
superfluous. 

Along  the  length  of  the  Hall  she  hurried.  To 
ward  the  statue  of  Pandora,  still  holding  her  fate 
ful,  marble  casket,  she  gave  a  passing  glance. 

Across  the  farther  end  of  the  Baronial  Hall  ran 
a  heavily  paneled  oak  partition.  The  upper  panels 
in  this  partition  were  open,  like  a  church  screen, 
giving  outlook  from  the  gallery  behind.  Although 
Octavia  had  not  visited  this  gallery  in  recent  years 


A   Pair  of  Eyes  239 

she  remembered  well  the  secret  door  that  opened 
upon  the  narrow  stairs.  This  door,  the  fourth 
panel  from  the  left,  was,  in  appearance,  like  all 
the  others.  Straight  to  this  panel  she  hurried.  She 
pushed  a  little  iron  button,  partly  hidden  between 
two  moldings.  Easily  the  door  opened.  Base- 
born  was,  of  course,  close  at  her  heels.  With  a 
rapid  gesture  she  motioned  him  to  enter.  For  a 
second  he  hesitated.  Then,  after  a  swift  glance  at 
her  face  to  be  sure  that  she  was  in  earnest,  he  en 
tered  and  bounded  up  the  narrow  stairs.  She  fol 
lowed,  but  more  slowly. 

Since  her  last  visit,  a  dozen  years  ago,  this  gallery, 
lighted  by  a  row  of  narrow,  Saxon  windows,  had 
become  a  refuge  for  discarded  things.  Scattered 
about  were  odd  pieces  of  furniture :  medieval  chairs, 
a  cabinet  that  had  been  in  a  fire,  the  remains  of  a 
chandelier,  and  an  old  spinet  with  shattered  key 
board  and  tottery  limbs.  On  the  wall  hung  various 
paintings  considered  unworthy  of  a  better  position. 
Glancing  carelessly  at  these  banished  works,  gen 
erally  portraits  of  discreditable  ancestors — or  of 
creditable  ancestors  badly  done — Octavia's  eyes, 
of  a  sudden,  opened  wider  in  astonishment.  She 
stopped,  and  held  her  breath.  Into  her  face  came  a 
startled  look.  A  queer  sensation,  as  if  her  brain 
were  playing  tricks,  brought  a  tingling  to  the  roots 
of  her  hair.  For  an  instant — the  briefest  second — 
she  thought  she  was  looking  into  the  living  eyes  of 
Ethan  Love  joy.  Upon  the  wall  in  front  of  her, 


240  Pandora's    Box 

on  a  level  with  her  own  face,  hung  a  once  familiar 
portrait.  It  was  the  portrait  of  a  woman.  But  the 
eyes  were  exactly  the  eyes  of  the  absent  architect. 
No  human  resemblance  could  be  closer — in  color, 
in  shape  and  in  character :  the  same  light  grey  with 
dark  brows  and  lashes,  the  same  friendly,  sym 
pathetic,  kind  expression.  And  even  the  curious 
little  curves  to  the  finely  drawn  eyebrows — an  up 
ward  and  then  downward  twist — even  that  was  pre 
cisely  similar:  and  it  gave  to  both  the  faces — the 
living  man  and  the  canvas  woman — an  expression 
absolutely  the  same.  This  portrait  in  its  oval  frame 
had  hung  in  Octavia's  chamber  until  Auntie  George 
came  to  live  at  the  castle.  It  was  one  of  the  friends 
of  her  childhood.  She  had  loved  the  face — the 
sympathizing  grey  eyes  and  the  half  suppressed 
smile.  It  was  the  missing  portrait,  and  she  had 
found  it! 

She  remembered  her  grief  at  its  departure.  And 
she  now  recalled  her  incredulity  when  told  by  Auntie 
George  that  the  person  represented  in  the  picture 
was  of  ignoble  origin  and  unworthy  a  place  among 
Drumworths. 

But  the  face  had  remained  in  Octavia's  memory 
as  that  of  an  intimate  friend.  Her  faith  had  never 
wavered.  Of  all  the  canvas  faces  in  Drumworth 
Castle — and  there  were  hundreds — this  had  always 
been  her  favorite.  So,  it  was  now  revealed  to  her 
why  Ethan  Love  joy's  eyes,  from  their  first  glance, 
had  inspired  her  with  confidence,  with  a  sense  of 


A   Pair   of  Eyes  241 

friendship  and  of  old  acquaintance.  Also,  she  knew 
now  why  her  own  eyes  had  been  drawn  so  mys 
teriously  and  with  such  persistence  toward  the 
empty  space  upon  her  chamber  wall. 

From  that  empty  space  these  eyes — his  eyes — had 
for  years  looked  serenely  into  her  own,  always  with 
love  and  sympathy. 

In  silence  Octavia  stood,  and  gazed — and  won 
dered.  The  lady's  history  she  had  never  known, 
being  too  young  to  care. 

Was  this  astonishing  resemblance  merely  chance? 


XX 

OUT  OF  THE  PAST 

MEANWHILE,  about  a  dozen  tourists,  guid 
ed  by  Bayliss,  an  old  servant  of  the  castle, 
had  entered  the  Hall.    After  listening  to  a 
brief  history  of  the  room  itself  they  turned  from 
one  spot  to  another,  standing  in  attentive  groups 
before  a  portrait,  a  banner  or  a  man  in  armor,  while 
Bayliss,  stately,  clean  shaven,  with  impressive  voice, 
poured  forth  a  wondrous  tale. 

As  for  Bayliss,  all  history  not  connected  with 
the  House  of  Drumworth  were  as  well  unwritten. 
He  had  never  bothered  with  it.  He  knew,  of  course, 
such  chronicles  might  be  of  interest  to  certain  for 
eigners.  But  serious  history,  that  is,  the  celestial 
story  of  the  House  of  Drumworth,  flowed  exultant 
from  his  lips,  recounted  writh  a  reverent  tongue. 

Octavia  looked  absently  through  the  screen,  down 
upon  the  tourists.  Her  thoughts  were  with  the 
portrait  and  the  memories  it  had  suddenly  awakened. 
But  she  discovered,  gradually,  that  her  eyes  were 
following,  first  carelessly,  then  with  a  livelier  in 
terest,  the  movements  of  one  of  the  visitors.  This 
visitor  was  a  woman  whose  thin  veil  seemed  to  have 

242 


Out  of  the  Past  243 

fallen  as  if  by  accident  over  her  face.  She  was 
plump  in  figure — not  stout,  but  pleasantly  plump— 
and  dressed  in  a  dark  blue  traveling  suit,  of  simple 
but  stylish  cut.  She  appeared  to  take  little  interest 
in  what  Bayliss  had  to  say.  From  the  other  tourists 
she  kept  aloof,  giving  Octavia  the  impression  of 
being  either  bored,  or  nervously  impatient — or  both. 
This  visitor  was  to  bring  several  surprises  to  Oc 
tavia  that  afternoon.  The  first  was  not  long  in 
coming. 

When  Bayliss,  followed  by  his  audience,  moved 
away  from  this  end  of  the  hall,  the  lady  in  dark 
blue  remained  behind.  And  when  all  backs  were 
turned  she  quietly  pressed  the  hidden  bolt  and  opened 
the  panel  through  which  Octavia  herself  had  entered 
the  gallery.  Silently  the  little  door  was  closed.  Oc 
tavia,  in  amazement,  held  her  breath.  None  of  the 
tourists,  nor  Bayliss,  had  witnessed  this  sudden  dis 
appearance.  From  them  the  woman  with  the  veil 
had  quietly  vanished,  and  none  had  missed  her. 

As  for  Octavia,  so  great  was  her  wonder  that  she 
felt  a  sudden  fear — a  fear  as  of  some  suspicious 
action  still  to  come,  yet  more  amazing  and  improb- 
ble.  Who  could  this  stranger  be — this  casual  tour 
ist — familiar  with  the  panel  and  its  secret  bolt? 
And  for  what  conceivable  purpose  was  she  now 
hiding  at  the  foot  of  the  stair?  Octavia's  first  im 
pulse  was  to  call  out  to  Bayliss  to  return  and  open 
the  door.  But  a  glance  at  Baseborn  restored  her 
confidence.  He,  also,  understood  the  situation.  With 


244  Pandora's   Box 

the  faintest  of  growls  he  looked  up  into  her  face 
for  orders.  She  laid  a  restraining  hand  on  his 
plebeian  but  reassuring  head,  and  waited.  Bayliss 
and  his  followers  passed  out  through  the  farther 
door.  For  a  moment,  in  the  great  hall,  there  was 
silence:  a  silence  so  exciting  to  Octavia  that  it  be 
came  almost  unbearable.  She  heard,  from  the  foot 
of  the  stair,  the  little  door  open,  then  the  rustle  of 
a  skirt,  then  the  gentle  closing  of  the  door.  Looking 
through  the  screen  she  saw  the  woman  walk  rapidly 
across  the  hall  to  the  statue  of  Pandora.  And  Oc- 
tavia's  eyes  opened  yet  wider  in  astonishment  as  she 
saw  the  woman  reach  up  and  insert  a  hand  in  the 
marble  casket.  For  an  instant  the  fingers  groped 
about  as  if  in  search  of  something.  Then  they  drew 
forth  a  folded  piece  of  paper.  And  it  seemed  to 
Octavia's  straining,  scarce  believing  eyes,  like  the 
note  she  herself  had  taken  from  the  same  casket  six 
months  before. 

Across  these  incredulous  eyes  Octavia  drew  a 
hand  as  if  to  rouse  herself  from  a  dream.  But  her 
bewilderment  was  brief.  When  the  lady  walked 
rapidly  to  the  great  window,  opened  with  quivering 
fingers  this  bit  of  paper  and  bent  eagerly  over  it, 
then  Octavia  made  a  swift  decision.  She  ran  down 
the  stairs,  pushed  open  the  panel  and  advanced  to 
ward  this  enigmatic  being.  The  woman  looked  up 
in  surprise,  and  took  a  backward  step. 

It  was  now  late  in  the  afternoon.  The  fading 
light  from  the  great  window  fell  softly  upon  the 


Out  of  the  Past  245 

visitor.  Mysteriously  she  blended  with  the  shadowy 
background  of  old  portraits  and  suits  of  armor. 
Octavia  found  herself  gazing  into  a  face  she  had 
never  seen  before.  It  was  an  attractive  face,  sensi 
tive,  gentle,  of  peculiar  beauty,  wide  across  the  fore 
head,  and  with  a  pointed  chin.  There  were  youth 
ful  contours  of  face  and  figure.  But  these  might  be 
deceptive.  She  could  pass  for  either  forty  or  sixty 
years  of  age. 

As  for  Baseborn,  he  sniffed  about  the  lady's 
skirts,  tactfully,  to  give  no  offense.  He  found  her 
more  than  satisfactory.  Backing  away  a  step  or  two 
he  stood  looking  up  into  her  face,  wagging  welcomes 
with  his  devious  tail.  But  the  lady  ignored  him. 
Baseborn  was  accustomed  to  being  ignored — or 
worse — by  respectable  people,  so  he  was  neither 
surprised  nor  resentful. 

Octavia,  self  forgetting,  stood  in  silence.  She 
looked  earnestly  into  the  lady's  face  as  one  who 
struggles  with  confusing  thoughts.  For,  with  dis 
turbing  power,  came  the  consciousness  of  something 
surprisingly  familiar  in  the  peculiar,  light  grey  eyes 
that  met  her  own.  The  lady,  with  a  slight  tilting 
of  the  pointed,  youthful  chin,  demanded  quietly,  but 
as  one  who  politely  resents  an  impertinence, 

"Do  you  wish  to  speak  with  me?" 

It  was  an  unusual  voice,  smooth,  low  and  most 
agreeable  to  the  ear. 

But  even  then  Octavia  did  not  answer.  The 
more  she  studied  this  stranger's  face,  the  more  puz- 


246  Pandora's    Box 

zling  her  memories,  until,  at  last,  she  exclaimed  in 
suppressed  excitement, 

"Ah,  how  stupid!  I  know  you  now!  I  know 
who  you  are!" 

But  the  visitor  was  less  elated.  Politely  but  with 
obvious  caution  she  inquired,  "Do  you?  Who  do 
you  think  I  am?" 

"I  think  you  were  my  grandfather's  second  wife 
— the  Countess  of  Drumworth." 

The  lady  was  plainly  startled.  She  frowned  in 
voluntarily,  and  drew  her  lips  together.  Then,  re 
garding  her  questioner  with  a  certain  reserve,  yet 
not  unamiably, 

"Why  do  you  think  so?" 

"Because  your  portrait  and  I  were  intimate 
friends— the  very  best  of  friends— for  many  years. 
It  used  to  hang  in  my  chamber,  just  opposite  my 
bed." 

She  was  about  to  mention  its  present  unhonored 
exile,  but  refrained.  Into  the  face  of  the  older 
woman  came  a  mirthless  smile,  a  smile  more  sad 
than  bitter,  as  she  murmured, 

"But  that  was  years  ago.     It  is  not  there  now,  I 

fancy." 

"No ;  I  just  discovered  it,  up  in  that  gallery.  It 
disappeared  when  Auntie  George  came  to  live  with 
us — after  my  mother's  death." 

"Your  Auntie  George !    Yes,  I  can  easily  believe 

it!" 

The  tone  in  which  this  was  uttered  showed  little 
enthusiasm  for  the  person  mentioned. 


Out   of  the   Past  247 

Octavia  held  forth  a  hand.  "But  you  and  I  are 
friends,  are  we  not?" 

For  an  instant  the  visitor  hesitated.  Then  she 
took  the  hand. 

"And  now,"  said  Octavia,  "you  must  forgive  me 
if  I  ask  an  impertinent  question." 

The  ex-Countess  of  Drumworth  smiled.  "If  not 
too  impertinent." 

"Have  you  read  the  note  you  just  took  from 
Pandora's  box  ?" 

This  question  evidently  caused  surprise.  "Yes, 
I  have  read  it." 

"Was  it  the  one  you  expected?" 

"How  did — why  should  you  suppose  that  I  ex 
pected — anything  ?" 

"Because  I  happened  to  be  in  that  gallery  up  there 
and  saw  you  walk  straight  to  the  box  and  take 
out  the  note  as  if  you  knew  it  was  waiting  for 


you." 


There  was  a  faint  smile  and  a  gentle  shake  of  the 
head.  "If  I  should  consider  your  question  imperti 
nent  what  am  I  to  do?" 

"Oh,  please  don't  think  me  impertinent!  I  am 
not  asking  what  is  in  the  note — merely  if  it  is  what 
you  expected.  For  I,  too,  took  a  note  from  that 
box  some  months  ago,  and  I  can't  help  thinking 
there  has  been  a  mistake — of  some  kind." 

"You  took  a  note  from  Pandora's  box!" 

Octavia  nodded  and  drew  forth  the  fateful  verse. 
The  ex-countess  bent  eagerly  forward  looking 


248  Pandora's   Box 

quickly  from  the  paper  in  Octavia's  fingers  to  the 
one  in  her  own,  then  back  again. 

"May  I  read  it?"  she  whispered. 

Octavia  smiled.    "How  impertinent  we  both  are !" 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  Here."  And  she  unfolded 
her  paper  and  gave  it  up. 

Octavia,  in  exchange,  delivered  her  own. 

The  two  women,  both  turning  slightly  away — 
their  backs  to  each  other — read  their  respective 
notes.  The  one  now  in  Octavia's  possession  proved 
whiter  and  fresher  than  the  one  she  had  relin 
quished.  It  was  written  in  pencil.  What  she  read 
was  this: 

To  a  Supercilious  Angel,  Sitting  in  a  Window. 

DEAR  SAINT: 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven, 

And  the  waves  clasp  one  another; 
No  sister  flower  would  be  forgiven 

If  it  disdained  its  brother; 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth, 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea, 
What  are  all  these  kissings  worth 
If  thou  kiss  not  me? 

Yours  truly, 

BASEBORN. 

When  Octavia  had  read  this  letter — this  prepos 
terous  use  of  her  beloved  Shelley — she  laughed.  The 
laugh  was  hysterical,  half-suppressed,  but  of  joy 
at  the  knowledge  of  Ethan  Love  joy's  escape  from 
the  charge  against  him.  The  laugh  quickly  ended, 
however,  by  a  tightening  of  the  throat  as  she  recalled 
his  punishment.  With  a  hand  pressed  hard  against 


Out  of  the   Past  249 

a  cheek,  her  eyes  staring  blindly  at  the  lines,  came 
the  bitter  realization  of  his  own  inevitable  opinion 
of  herself,  of  her  sudden  change  of  manner — with 
his  heartless  dismissal.  And  all  for  this  innocent 
bit  of  nonsense! 

Looking  down  at  Baseborn,  whose  counterfeit 
signature  was  on  the  note,  she  met  the  ever  adoring 
eyes,  gazing  solemnly  into  her  own.     They  offered 
sympathy,  and  were  seeking  truth.    As  usual,  when 
honored  by  a  glance,  the  ears  moved  up  and  the 
scrubby  tail  waved  grateful  recognition.   She  smiled 
and  touched  his  head.     Yes,  at  that  moment  she 
could   have   answered   his  poem  with   one   of   the 
kisses  so  glowingly  invited — were  he  only  a  trifle 
less  ugly.    We  all  know  individuals  whose  complete 
ugliness,  from  its  very  perfection,  renders  them  ob 
jects  of  interest;  an  interest  not  enjoyed  by  persons 
more  comely   and  more  commonplace.      Such   an 
individual  was  Baseborn.     However,  it  should  be 
clearly  understood,  in  justice  to  Octavia,  that  no 
discriminating  person — even  if  well  aware  of  Base- 
born's   moral   worth — had   ever   been   impelled   to 
kiss  him. 


XXI 

SUPPRESSED  HISTORY 

A  SOUND  from  the  window  awakened  Oc- 
tavia  from  her  dismal  reflections.  It  was 
the  sound  of  a  sob,  restrained,  but  distinct. 
She  saw  the  visitor  reading,  over  and  over  again, 
the  missive  between  her  fingers.  And  the  present 
effect  was  far  different  from  its  effect  upon  the  first 
recipient. 

Octavia  came  over  and  stood  beside  the  reader. 
A  few  words  of  tactful  sympathy  produced  their 
inevitable  effect  upon  a  fellow-creature  overwrought 
by  emotion,  unconsciously  craving  that  very  sym 
pathy.  The  story  of  the  note  was  briefly  told  by 
Octavia;  of  inserting  her  fingers  in  Pandora's  box 
and  drawing  forth  a  communication  quite  different 
• — as  now  divulged — from  that  intended  by  the  send 
er.  "But  how  does  it  happen,"  she  asked,  "that  the 
initials  E.  L.  on  your  note  are  the  initials  of  the 
man  who  wrote  this  other  note  thirty  years  later  and 
signed  it  Baseborn?" 

"These  are  the  initials  of  my  husband,  Ethan 
Lovejoy.  And  perhaps  you  can  imagine  my  be 
wilderment  just  now  when  I  opened  the  note  I  had 

250 


Suppressed   History 

taken  from  Pandora's  box  and  recognized  my  son's 
handwriting,  written — so  I  believed — thirty-three 
years  ago,  before  he  was  born.  Yet  it  is  clearly  his 
handwriting." 

"Oh,  indeed  you  had  cause  for  astonishment! 
And  the  surprise  would  have  been  greater  still  had 
you  known  Baseborn." 

At  this  mention  of  his  name  Baseborn  waved  his 
tail.  He  looked  earnestly  from  one  face  to  the  other 
with  a  dog's  humble  effort  at  comprehension. 

The  afternoon  light  in  the  Old  Hall  was  now  fad 
ing.  When  Octavia  suggested  that  they  go  out  into 
the  garden  the  visitor  at  once  consented.  "Yes, 
there  is  a  bench  out  there  where  we  can  sit." 

"A  cosy  bench — for  true  lovers,"  and  in  saying 
it  Octavia  blushed — to  her  own  mortification.  The 
visitor  raised  her  eyebrows,  then  smiled.  "Ah,  you 
know  that  inscription !  Although  hidden  by  vines." 

"And  you,  too,  seem  to  have  found  it,"  said  Oc 
tavia. 

Again  they  both  smiled — discreetly. 

Before  the  old  stone  seat  they  stood,  for  a  mo 
ment,  each  reading  the  quaint  inscription. 

WT*  0o©0ff  roisdc 
> 

trew 


After  a  silence  the  older  woman  spoke.  "But 
this  bench,  with  the  pale  roses  above,  has  fore 
shadowed  tragedy  —  for  certain  lovers.  Anne 


252  Pandora's    Box 

Boleyn  sat  here  with  her  bloodthirsty  Henry.  And 
as  perhaps  you  know,  there  is  a  letter  of  hers  in  the 
British  Museum,  written  to  the  same  gentleman,  in 
which  she  mentions  it." 

"Mentions  this  very  bench?  Why,  I  never  knew 
that!" 

"This  very  bench ;  and  the  inscription,  too/' 

"But  why/'  exclaimed  Octavia,  "was  I  never  told 
of  that  letter?  I  thought  I  knew  every  bit  of  Drum- 
worth  history." 

"Because  I  discovered  it  myself,  and  never  told 
the  family." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  knew  it  would  interest  them.  So  I  kept  it  to 
myself." 

Octavia's  face  showed  surprise,  and  reproach. 
But  the  honest  eyes  of  her  new  acquaintance  looked 
smilingly  into  her  own.  "That  needs  explanation, 
doesn't  it?  The  Drumworth  family  at  that  time 
consisted  of  my  husband,  who  was  working  hard 
to  render  me  the  most  wretched  wife  in  England, 
and  of  two  sisters  who  gave  him  splendid  support." 

"Oh,  no!" 

"Oh,  yes!"  And  Mrs.  Lovejoy's  smile  grew 
fainter.  "Incidentally  they  made  it  a  principle  to 
doubt  whatever  I  said.  So  you  see,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  there  was  no  temptation  to  be  talkative." 

Although  the  lady  spoke  habitually  in  a  some 
what  playful  manner,  her  speech  was  none  the  less 
convincing.  For  Octavia  was  discovering  that  this 


Suppressed   History  253 

mother,  like  her  son,  could  hide  inward  grief  by 
outward  mirth. 

They  seated  themselves  upon  the  bench.  It  being 
a  Kosyie  Benche,  especially  constructed  for  "trew 
lovirs,"  the  two  ladies  were  somewhat  close  to 
gether.  For  a  time  they  sat  in  silence. 

The  old  garden,  like  the  Hall,  was  less  seductive 
of  an  afternoon.  It  missed  the  morning  sunshine. 
But,  unlike  the  Old  Hall,  it  had,  just  at  present,  a 
rosy  sky  for  roof.  All  about  the  place,  among  its 
dusky  masses  of  box  and  yew,  hovered  the  gentle 
melancholy  that  lingers  in  ancient  gardens.  More 
over,  for  both  women,  this  garden  had  undying 
memories.  And  both  women,  for  a  time,  found 
pleasure  in  its  silence. 

Mrs.  Lovejoy,  leaning  back  with  hands  folded  in 
her  lap,  the  long  delayed  note  between  her  fingers, 
surveyed,  with  clouded  eyes,  the  once  familiar 
scene.  At  last  she  straightened  up.  "Of  course  I 
can  guess  at  the  sort  of  reputation  I  enjoy  at  Drum- 
worth;  that  of  a  frivolous  woman  who  ran  away 
from  a  better  husband  than  she  deserved.  To  be 
expected,  of  course,  when  a  gentleman  of  noble 
birth  so  far  forgets  himself  as  to  marry  a  farmer's 
daughter.  But  there  were  circumstances  which  the 
husband's  family  have  not  shouted  from  the  house 
tops  :  which  you,  probably,  have  never  heard." 

"I  have  heard  very  little,"  said  Octavia.  "And 
had  I  heard  anything  against  you  I  should  not  have 
believed  it.  I  loved  your  portrait.  After  my 


254  Pandora's  Box 

mother's  death  your  face  became  very  dear  to  me." 

Mrs.  Love  joy  laid  a  plump,  well  gloved  hand  on 
one  of  Octavia's.  "Thank  you.  You  are  a  loyal 
friend — a  true  hearted,  generous  girl,  as  I  have  al 
ready  heard.  Our  reputations,  you  see,  are  some 
what  different.  But  to  go  on  with  my  story,  which 
must  be  short.  Knowing  your  own  people  you  can 
imagine  with  what  joy  and  with  what  a  hearty  wel 
come  a  farmer's  daughter  was  received  into  the 
Drumworth  family,  and  especially  by  your  two 
great  aunts." 

"Which  aunts?" 

"Your  great  aunts,  Frances  and  Georgiana.  Both 
were  living  at  the  castle  when  I  came — and  both 
kindly  remained.  Do  you  remember  your  Aunt 
Frances?" 

"Yes,  but  not  distinctly." 

"Fortunate  girl!  Compared  with  Aunt  Frances 
your  Aunt  Georgiana  is  a  broad-minded,  sympa 
thetic,  self-sacrificing  democrat." 

Octavia,  knowing  Auntie  George,  could  not  help 
smiling. 

"So  you  can  imagine  the  happy  hours  I  passed 
here.  Especially  after  your  grandfather  tired  of  me 
— within  a  year — and  spent  most  of  his  time  in 
London — with  other  ladies.  And  such  ladies !" 

"Really?" 

"Such  creatures  were  a  revelation  to  me,  being 
literally  a  village  girl.  I  was  fond  of  gaiety  my 
self  and  inclined  to  be  lively,  but  compared  writh 


Suppressed   History  255 

those  ladies  I  was  sanctimony  itself.  His  behavior 
disgusted  certain  of  his  friends  who  told  him  what 
they  thought.  He  became,  among  other  things,  so 
insanely  jealous  that  I  really  feared  for  my  safety." 

"Oh!"  And  in  this  exclamation  was  a  shade  of 
doubt. 

The  visitor  raised  a  finger  to  her  face.  "Do  you 
see  a  scar  just  above  the  eye?  That  was  made  by 
the  knuckles  of  your  grandfather,  my  gentle  hus 
band." 

Now  Octavia  was  not  ignorant  of  her  grand 
father's  temper.  And  even  had  she  been  ignorant 
there  was  unmistakable  truth  in  this  woman's  voice 
and  tone  and  manner  of  speech.  It  was  an  honest 
tale,  sincerely  told,  of  a  woman  defending  her  own 
good  name. 

"Well,  I  will  not  bore  you  with  any  details  of 
my  year  of  married  life  here  at  the  castle.  I  was 
young,  simple  and  sensitive.  The  two  aunts  were 
older,  more  experienced  and  absolutely  unfeeling. 
I  know  now,  looking  back  upon  it  all,  that  it  was 
their  wish  to  drive  me  to  some  compromising  act. 
No  two  women  ever  had  an  easier  victim.  What  I 
endured  in  the  way  of  snubs,  humiliations  and  un 
disguised  contempt — well,  the  wonder  is  that,  hav 
ing  some  pride  of  my  own,  I  endured  it  at  all.  In 
the  presence  of  visitors  and  before  the  servants  I 
was  cleverly  and  persistently  mortified.  For  years 
afterward  I  would  wake  up  in  the  night  from  a 
horrid  dream  in  which  I  tried  in  vain  to  flee  from 


256  Pandora's   Box 

the  faded,  slow  moving,  contemptuous  eyes  of  Aunt 
Frances,  from  her  square,  firm  jaw — like  your 
grandfather's — and  the  sneering  mouth.  And  when 
this  undisguised  contempt  of  the  aunts  finally  so 
affected  my  husband  himself  that  he  began  to  be 
ashamed  of  me  and  my  origin  I  was  really  too  un 
happy  to  care  what  happened." 

There  was  a  pause.  Octavia,  as  she  looked  into 
the  speaker's  gentle,  cheerful  face,  could  see  traces 
of  trouble  and  of  suffering  not  entirely  hidden  by 
the  present  plumpness. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  bore  it.  And  I  will  confess, 
as  we  are  all  in  the  family,  that  I  can  easily  imagine 
what  those  aunts  could  do.  Also,  I  know  my  grand 
father." 

Gently  the  visitor  shook  her  head.  "No.  You 
only  know  him  as  a  grandfather.  And  there  can  be 
a  frightful  difference  between  a  grandfather  and  a 
husband:  the  difference  between  watching  a  ship 
wreck  from  the  shore  and  being  aboard.  As  a  hus 
band  he  was  simply  unspeakable.  But  I  must  get 
on  with  my  story — my  defense,  I  might  say.  One 
morning  I  went  off  to  a  corner  of  a  garden  merely  to 
escape  the  aunts.  I  happened  to  notice  in  the  wall 
a  door  that  was  new  to  me.  I  opened  it,  passed 
along  the  cloisters  and  came  out  into  this  garden. 
From  that  window  above  us,  which  was  open,  I 
heard  the  voice  of  a  man,  humming  fragments  of 
songs.  I  went  in  and  found  a  man  at  a  long  table 
making  drawings  of  the  castle." 


Suppressed   History  257 

Octavia,  in  amazement,  rose  from  her  seat.  Stand 
ing  before  Mrs.  Lovejoy  she  looked  down  into  her 
face  with  an  expression  that  lady  failed  to  com 
prehend.  Somewhat  taken  aback  by  the  suddenness 
of  the  movement  she  gazed  inquiringly  into  Oc- 
tavia's  startled  eyes.  "What  is  it?" 

"Why — you — what  you  have  just  told  is  my  own 
experience — precisely !  It  is  the  way  I  came  to  know 
your  son!" 

"Really!" 

"Yes;  exactly  the  same.  It  seemed,  when  you 
were  speaking,  as  if  I  were  listening  to  an  account 
of  my  own  adventure." 

"A  curious  coincidence,  surely,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Lovejoy.  "But  then,  you  know,  we  are  told  that 
history  repeats  itself.  However,  not  very  often  in 
just  that  manner,  I  should  say." 

Octavia  again  took  her  seat  upon  the  bench.  "Ex 
cuse  my  interruption.  It  did  seem  so  surprising 
and  mysterious ;  almost  unnatural.  But  please  con 
tinue." 

"Well,  this  draughtsman  proved  to  be  interest 
ing;  wise  and  witty,  frank,  cheerful,  kind,  sym 
pathetic,  full  of  fun,  straightforward,  high  minded, 
in  fact  with  all  the  qualities  that  I  most  love  in  a 
man.  I  came  again  the  next  day — and  the  next,  and 
for  several  days.  I  used  to  sit  in  the  window  and 
watch  him  as  he  worked." 

Again,  involuntarily,  Octavia  straightened  up. 
But  with  a  smile  and  a  nervous  little  laugh  she 


258  Pandora's   Box 

apologized.  "I  didn't  mean  to  interrupt  you.  But 
I  also  used  to  sit  in  the  window  and  watch  your  son 
as  he  worked." 

"Indeed!  The  repetition  does  seem  singular. 
However,  there  is  really  nothing  astonishing,  per 
haps.  One  might  call  it  the  natural  order  of  events 
from  like  conditions.  But  from  this  point  our  ex 
periences  probably  bear  no  resemblance.  After 
spending  several  mornings  in  this  manner,  and  be 
coming  more  and  more  intimate,  and  with  intoxicat 
ing  speed — well — you  can  perhaps  guess  the  result 
even  if  the  little  god  has  spared  you." 

As  Octavia  nodded  assent  there  came  a  tingling 
in  her  cheeks.  But  Mrs.  Love  joy  was  unobservant. 
With  a  faint  smile  she  gazed  absently  toward  the 
tower  of  Drumworth  church,  now  in  the  golden 
light  from  a  setting  sun. 

"I  found  my  draughtsman  was  an  American — 
which,  of  course,  was  a  blow.  I  had  never  seen  an 
American  and  could  hardly  believe  it  when  he  told 
me.  As  a  child  I  supposed  all  Americans  wore 
feathers  in  their  hair,  waved  hatchets,  and  uttered 
frightful  war  whoops.  I  learned  better  than  that,  of 
course,  as  I  grew  up.  But  I  did  know  that  they 
were  all  dyspeptic,  flat  chested  and  pale,  and  lived  on 
nutmegs  and  green  tea :  that  they  were  dishonest  and 
terribly  nervous — most  of  them  with  St.  Vitus's 
dance.  So  you  can  imagine  my  surprise  on  finding 
that  one  of  them,  at  least,  was  calm,  deep-chested, 
full  of  fun,  had  a  pleasant  voice  and  not  a  single 
feather  growing  from  his  head." 


Suppressed  History  259 

Octavia  smiled.     "But  not  honest." 

"Absurdly  honest.  So  much  honester  than  my 
self  that  I  felt  ashamed  of  my  own  instincts.  Well, 
one  summer  evening  I  was  sitting  in  the  draw 
ing  room  with  the  two  sisters-in-law — Frances  and 
Georgiana — both  old  enough  to  be  my  mother. 
My  husband,  you  know,  was  more  than  twenty  years 
older  than  I,  and  his  sisters  older  than  he.  That 
evening  I  pretended  to  read,  but  was  listening,  as 
they  knew  I  must,  to  their  conversation.  They  were 
deploring  the  humiliation  of  a  certain  noble  family 
whose  son  had  become  engaged  to  a  person  of  ig 
noble  birth— like  mine.  The  comments,  of  course, 
were  intended  for  me.  My  husband  was  alone  in  the 
library.  After  a  while,  with  burning  cheeks,  I  laid 
down  my  book  and  went  out  into  the  garden  to  cry 
by  myself.  I  did  not  wish  the  two  ladies  to  have 
the  gratification  of  seeing  my  tears.  Entirely  by 
accident,  and  from  an  impulse  of  the  moment,  I  kept 
on,  through  the  cloisters  into  this  old  garden.  To 
my  surprise  I  found  here — dreaming  of  myself  he 
said — my  draughtsman." 

Mrs.  Lovejoy  leaned  back  and  folded  her  hands  in 
her  lap.  After  a  short  silence  she  went  on,  but  in  a 
lower  voice  : 

"Hopeless,  helpless,  weary  of  the  struggle,  crushed 
in  spirit,  I  walked  into  his  arms.  The  rest  of  the 
story  you  have  probably  heard." 

"No,  not  a  word  of  it.  It  has  all  been  the  dark 
est  mystery.  We  know  nothing  whatever  except 


260  Pandora's   Box 

that  my  grandfather  followed  you  out  into  the 
garden,  returned  alone  an  hour  or  so  later  and 
has  been  speechless  ever  since;  that  you  disap 
peared  completely  and  were  never  heard  of  after 
wards." 

Mrs.  Love  joy  seemed  surprised.  "Has  he  never 
told  his  side  of  the  story?" 

"Not  a  word.     And  no  one  has  dared  ask  him." 

Mrs.  Love  joy  smiled  —  somewhat  scornfully- 
"His  pride.  Yes — his  pride  has  kept  him  silent/* 

"Then  you  think  he  could  speak  if  he  wished?" 

"Oh  no!  I  did  not  mean  that.  I  think  he  is 
voiceless — without  the  power  of  speech.  The  in 
jury  to  his  head  accounts  for  that." 

"Injury  to  his  head?" 

"Yes.  I  will  tell  you.  After  our  meeting,  after 
walking  into  a  pair  of  arms — as  I  have  said — 
Ethan  Lovejoy  and  I  sat  upon  this  bench.  It  was 
paradise — after  purgatory.  The  moon,  that  even 
ing,  and  I  shall  never  forget  it — a  great,  round  lu 
minous  ball — rose  slowly  from  behind  that  church 
tower." 

Baseborn,  during  this  interview,  had  been  lying 
a  few  feet  away,  near  the  basin  of  the  waterless 
fountain.  With  chin  on  his  front  paws  he  as 
sumed,  according  to  the  habit  of  dogs,  a  sleepy  in 
difference  to  other  people's  doings.  One  eye,  how 
ever,  had  now  and  then  opened — also  the  custom  of 
dogs — and  had  kept  him  informed  as  to  the  situa 
tion.  Now  he  arose,  slowly,  and  did  a  surprising 


Suppressed   History 

thing  for  so  tactful  a  dog ;  a  dog  habitually  consid 
erate  of  other  people's  feelings.  He  approached  the 
two  ladies,  stretched  himself,  and  yawned.  He 
yawned  elaborately,  making  a  peculiar  noise  in  his 
throat.  The  noise  had  a  human  sound.  Then  he 
shook  himself,  sat  down  on  hisliaunches  and  looked 
into  the  two  faces,  first  of  one  lady  then  the  other, 
with  an  expression  which  said  clearer  than  words, 
"How  much  longer  are  you  two  things  going  to  sit 
here?" 

So  unmistakable  was  this  look  that  Mrs.  Lovejoy 
responded :  "Have  patience,  Mr.  Baseborn.  It  is 
nearly  finished." 

Baseborn,  by  a  movement  of  the  tail,  acknowl 
edged  the  explanation. 

"As  we  sat  here,  I  happy,  yet  with  a  breaking 
heart,  Ethan  Lovejoy  asked  if  I  had  taken  my  let 
ter  that  afternoon  from  Pandora's  box.  You  see, 
we  used  Pandora's  box  as  a  post  office.  I  wished 
to  run  in  and  get  the  letter,  but  he  held  me  back,  say 
ing  it  would  keep  until  tomorrow." 

Raising  the  paper  in  her  hand,  she  added,  "This 
is  the  letter.  It  has  waited  for  me  thirty-three 
years." 

Octavia  regarded  this  fateful  bit  of  paper  with  a 
certain  fear — and  fascination.  Innocent  in  itself,  it 
had  worked  amazing  evil  before  the  final  fulfilment 
of  its  mission. 

"As  we  sat  here,  on  this  bench,  watching  the 
slowly  rising  moon  we  were,  of  course,  very  near 


262  Pandora's   Box 

together — for  that  is  the  purpose  of  the  bench.  But 
brief  indeed  was  our  dream.  A  sudden  sound 
on  the  gravel  walk,  of  a  footstep  near  us,  brought 
a  cruel  awakening.  Can  I  ever  forget  it  ?  There,  in 
the  moonlight,  stood  my  legal  owner.  Towering 
above  us,  he  seemed  a  mile  in  height.  My  architect 
jumped  to  his  feet.  The  two  men  faced  each  other. 
I  also  stood  up.  And  I  remember  my  knees  could 
scarcely  hold  me  as  I  leaned  against  the  arm  of  the 
seat.  For  a  moment  there  was  a  silence.  Then  the 
earl,  his  voice  hoarse  with  rage,  pointing  back  to 
ward  the  archway  said  to  me,  'Go !'  But  I  did  not 
move.  My  blood  was  frozen;  my  limbs  too  weak. 
He  had  nearly  killed  me  once,  and  I  could  guess  at 
my  future.  'Go/  he  repeated.  But  I  could  only 
shrink  back,  closer  against  the  wall.  Then,  in  his 
fury — did  you  ever  see  him,  by  the  way,  on  one  of 
those  occasions — in  one  of  his  rages?" 

Octavia  closed  her  eyes,  tightened  her  lips,  and 
nodded. 

'Then  you  can  understand  my  terror." 

"Indeed  I  can!" 

"Well,  he  brought  his  hand  down  upon  my  head 
with  awful  force  and  clutched  my  hair.  After  that 
things  happened  as  in  a  dream.  With  all  his  strength 
he  dragged  me  toward  him  and  I  fell  to  the  ground, 
on  my  face.  For  a  moment  I  lay  there,  stunned. 
It  was  only  for  an  instant.  But  during  that  instant 
things  had  happened  to  the  earl.  As  I  tried  to  get 
up  I  saw  him  lying  on  the  ground,  his  head  against 


Suppressed   History  263 

the  pedestal  of  that  dancing  cupid.  I  can  see  him 
now,  when  I  close  my  eyes — his  white  face  in  the 
moonlight. 

"As  Ethan  Lovejoy  picked  me  up  and  asked 
if  I  were  hurt  I  could  not  take  my  eyes  from  the 
figure  on  the  ground,  at  the  foot  of  the  statue.  He 
lay  as  if  dead.  We  helped  him  to  his  feet,  then 
onto  this  bench.  He  sat  staring  from  one  of  us  to 
the  other,  his  lips  moving  as  if  cursing  us.  But 
there  was  no  sound.  He  was  trying,  in  a  crazy  way, 
to  talk.  With  the  moon  shining  full  in  his  face 
he  had  a  ghastly  pallor.  His  white  lips  \vorked  and 
quivered  in  that  horrid  silence — oh!  I  can  see  him 
now!  I  shall  never  forget  it!" 

Mrs.  Lovejoy  put  a  hand  to  her  face  and  leaned 
back  for  a  moment. 

Octavia's  eyes,  during  this  story,  never  left  the 
speaker.  So  this  was  the  explanation  of  her  grand 
father's  eternal  silence ! 

"I  suppose  you  know,"  she  said  gently,  "that  he 
has  never  spoken  since." 

"Yes.  I  heard  so,  years  afterward.  How  long 
he  sat  on  the  bench  here  I  don't  know.  It  might 
have  been  an  hour.  At  last  he  was  able  to  stand, 
still  working  his  lips — and  his  clenched  fist.  I  think 
his  mind  was  wandering.  He  seemed  almost  para 
lyzed  with  rage.  It  was  terrible — horrible ! — and  all 
the  more  terrifying  from  the  unaccountable  silence. 

"At  last,  when  he  found  he  could  stand  alone, 
he  backed  away,  through  the  arch,  his  walk  un- 


264  Pandora's    Box 

steady,  like  a  man  who  had  been  drinking.  Then 
came,  for  us,  a  sudden  resolve.  Most  emphatic,  and 
to  me  convincing,  were  Ethan  Love  joy's  protesta 
tions  against  my  remaining  with  such  a  husband. 
Of  course  he  was  not  disinterested,  but  he  spoke 
truly  when  he  said  my  life  would  not  be  safe.  And 
you  know  the  rest." 


XXII 

IF 

NO.  I  do  not  know  the  rest.  Please  go  on." 
"The  rest  is  commonplace.  We  were 
married  as  soon  as  I  could  get  a  divorce 
from  your  grandfather,  and  we  lived  happily  ever 
after." 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad!  So  glad  Mr.  Lovejoy  was 
good  to  you!" 

"Good  to  me!  He  was  an  angel.  He  never  did 
an  unkind  thing  in  his  life.  Had  he  tried  I  am  sure 
he  would  have  failed." 

She  pointed  to  the  door  in  the  wall  at  the  end 
of  the  garden.  "We  went  out  by  that  passage, 
floated  down  the  river  in  the  little  ferry  boat,  then 
took  a  steamer  for  America,  the  land  of  sunshine. 
For  me  it  was  a  new  life,  of  peace  and  harmony, 
of  love  and  devotion :  with  a  home  really  my  own. 
Instead  of  a  splendid  castle  it  was  a  little  wooden 
house — commonplace  and  modest.  But,  oh,  the 
difference!  And  you  see  for  yourself,  my  dear,  in 
this  fat  old  woman,  how  well  it  has  agreed  with 
me." 

"Fat !  You  are  just  right  in  every  way.  For  me 
265 


266  Pandora's   Box 

you  will  always  remain  the  dearest  friend  of  my 
childhood.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  kind  eyes  that 
used  to  look  down  from  my  chamber  walL  And 
I  am  so  glad,  so  very  glad,  that  your  life  has  been 
happy."  Then,  after  a  pause,  she  added,  "And 
being  a  mother  you  think  your  son  is  also  perfect." 

"Yes.  Being  absolutely  impartial  I  am  sure  of  it. 
He  is  just  like  his  father,  only  more  so." 

"Then  he  is  more  than  perfect!" 

Mrs.  Lovejoy  smiled.  "Well,  not  offensively  per 
fect.  But  he  is  honest  and  brave.  He  is  clever,  and 
strong,  and  modest,  and  generous  and  reliable;  and 
always  cheerful.  No  human  being  could  have  a 
kinder  heart." 

Octavia  shook  her  head.  "What  splendid  things 
men  are — if  mothers  tell  the  truth!" 

"Did  you  see  much  of  my  boy  when,  he  was 
here?" 

"Er — yes — several  times." 

"Do  you  know  him  well  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  Why — yes — I  knew  him  pretty 
well." 

"And  don't  you  like  him,  just  a  little?" 

Octavia  lowered  her  eyes,  and  gently  scraped  the 
gravel  with  a  foot.  "Yes — perhaps — just  a  little. 
But  he  has  his  faults,  you  know." 

"No.    Not  a  fault!" 

"Oh  yes !  Quite  a  number.  He  can  be  very  im 
pertinent  and  irritating.  He  is  too  socialistic,  and 
lacks  respect  for — for  a  great  many — excellent 


If  267 

things.  And  he  whistles.  In  fact  his  manners  are 
quite  bad." 

"Oh,  never!" 

"Yes,  quite  bad,  at  times." 

The  mother  laughed,  and  rose  from  the  seat. 
"Well,  I  should  like  to  tell  him  what  you  say,  al 
though  of  course  I  don't  believe  it.  But  men  are 
apt  to  be  conceited  and  it  might  do  him  good." 

"And  I  wish,"  said  Octavia,  her  eyes  still  on  the 
ground,  "that  you  would  also  tell  him  about  this 
mistake  in  the  two  notes.  And  that — that — I,  of 
course,  should  not  have  been  at  all  offended  had  I 
known  the  truth.  I  was  really  quite  rude  to  him 
and  very  unjust — as  I  now  realize." 

There  being  no  reply  to  this  request  Octavia 
looked  up.  She  saw  Mrs.  Love  joy  with  a  more 
serious  face  looking  far  away,  beyond  the  garden, 
over  the  distant  meadows. 

Octavia  spoke  again.  "Would  you  mind  telling 
him  this?" 

With  eyes  still  over  the  meadows  Mrs.  Love  joy 
answered,  "Is  it  important?" 

"Why — no :  perhaps  not."  And  Octavia,  em 
barrassed  and  somewhat  surprised,  also  stood  up. 
Whereupon  her  companion  turned  and  laid  a  hand 
upon  her  arm. 

"Forgive  me  if  I  seem  disobliging.  But  I  do  not 
wish  him  to  know  that  I  have  been  here.  He  knows 
nothing  of  my  running  away  from  that  first  hus 
band.  His  father  and  I  decided,  years  ago,  that  it 


268  Pandora's   Box 

might  be  better  for  the  child,  and  for  us,  if  he  were 
never  told." 

"But  why  not?  If  he  knew  the  reasons  he  would 
surely  understand,  and  think  no  less  of  you." 

"Possibly.  But  a  scandal's  a  scandal.  And  it's 
a  difficult  thing  to  explain  to  a  son  who  believes  his 
mother  above  reproach." 

"He  would  still  think  so.    He  is  not  a  fool." 

"No;  not  a  fool.  But  men  are  peculiar.  One 
never  can  tell  what  a  man  will  do  next;  nor  what 
he  may  think.  But  tell  me  the  truth.  Let  us 
be  frank  with  each  other.  You  can  trust  me, 
as  I  am  trusting  you.  Is  it  important — that  I 
explain  to  him  about  the  notes?  Do  you  seriously 
wish  it?" 

This  time,  as  Octavia  met  the  earnest,  searching 
but  friendly  gaze  of  the  familiar  eyes,  her  effort  to 
hide  embarrassment  was  an  open  failure.  Her 
blushes  betrayed  her.  With  a  frown  of  vexation 
she  drew  back  a  step,  mortified  at  her  own  con 
fusion. 

Gently  Mrs.  Love  joy  laughed.  "You  have  an 
swered.  I  shall  give  your  message.  I  will  tell  him 
that  I  came  here  among  other  tourists  to  visit  the 
castle  and  that  I  met  you  incidentally — which  is,  of 
course,  the  simple  truth.  And  I  give  you  my  word 
of  honor  that  I  will  say  nothing  which  you  would 
not  approve.  And  I  may  trust  you,  may  I  not,  to 
keep  my  own  secret?" 

"Yes.     I  promise." 

"Then  let  us  be  happy  again  and  forget  certain 


If  269 

husbands — and  grandfathers,  and  other  unpleasant 
things.  Come.  I  must  be  going." 

So  saying,  she  put  an  arm  around  Octavia' s  waist 
and  they  started  along  the  weed  grown,  gravel  path 
toward  the  little  door  at  the  end  of  the  garden.  Five 
minutes  later  the  two  women  stood  in  the  narrow 
archway,  hand  in  hand,  with  final  words  of  parting. 

"Won't  you  change  your  mind,"  said  Octavia, 
"and  let  me  take  you  to  the  station  in  the  motor?" 

"Not  for  worlds !  What  a  jolly  meeting  it  would 
be  if  I  encountered  the  Earl  of  Drumworth  on  the 
terrace,  in  the  hall,  or  at  the  front  door — or  any 
where  else!  It  would  be  deliberate  murder  on  my 
part,  for  he  would  die  of  rage." 

"But  the  station  is  a  mile  away,  as  of  course  you 
know." 

"What's  a  mile  to  a  young  thing  of  fifty- four? 
And  besides,  walking  reduces  weight." 

A  few  more  parting  words;  then  Octavia  stood 
for  a  moment  watching  this  new  friend  who  went 
her  way  with  a  quick,  firm  step,  as  one  familiar 
with  the  path. 

In  front  of  the  Pindar  cottage  Mrs.  Lovejoy 
looked  at  her  watch.  Then,  along  the  narrow  brick 
path,  she  crossed  the  garden  and  knocked  at  the 
open  door.  Nobody  answered.  She  went  in. 
Through  the  cottage  she  saw  a  woman  in  the  garden 
beyond.  It  was  Mrs.  Pindar,  who  turned  about  at 
the  visitor's  approach. 

Mrs.   Pindar,   in  thirty-three  years,  had  grown 


Pandora's   Box 

stouter.  So  also  had  the  visitor.  And  Time,  rarely 
considerate,  had  wrought  other  changes. 

"Pindar!  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you!"  And  Mrs. 
Love  joy  held  out  a  hand. 

Mrs.  Pindar  took  the  hand.  After  an  earnest 
look  into  the  visitor's  eyes  her  face  brightened,  and 
she  curtsied. 

"Most  welcome,  your  ladyship !  It's  many  weeks 
since  you  left  us." 

"Many  weeks!    I  should  say  so!" 

"But  your  room  is  all  ready." 

"My  room?    What  do  you  mean,  Pindar?" 

"The   same   room  you  had  before.     Upstairs." 

"Here?" 

"Of  course!  Where  else?  And  the  razors  are 
there :  all  safe." 

"Razors !" 

"Yes  indeed!  The  razors  you  forgot  when  you 
left  so  suddenly." 

Mrs.  Lovejoy  frowned.  There  was  no  doubt 
that  she  had  left  Drumworth  suddenly — nothing 
could  be  more  sudden — but  this  manner  of  recalling 
it  was  not  tactful;  especially  in  the  presence  of 
others.  For  behind  Mrs.  Pindar,  on  a  circular 
bench  around  a  tree,  sat  a  woman,  sewing.  Mrs. 
Pindar  noticed  the  look  of  annoyance. 

"Never  mind !  Never  mind !  We  have  not  used 
them.  Besides,  we  don't  mind  tobacco."  Then  she 
suddenly  whispered,  "Clothes  matter  little — man  or 
woman.  Your  secret  is  safe." 


If  271 

Mrs.  Love  joy,  sorely  puzzled,  took  a  step  or  two 
backward.  But  Mrs.  Pindar,  with  a  friendly  smile, 
and  in  a  playful  manner,  shook  a  finger. 

"Tis  not  your  ladyship  that  carries  your  shoes 
in  your  hand  to  save  wearing  them  out.  No,  no! 
I  remember  now.  It's  the  Beechwood  sisters.  The 
two  old  maids  who  cheat  the  grocer." 

At  this  point  Sally  Pindar  laid  down  her  sewing, 
and  came  forward.  She  touched  her  own  fore 
head  in  a  manner  to  indicate  that  Mrs.  Pindar's 
mind  was  not  in  perfect  order. 

"Mamma  is  misled,  I  think,  by  a  resemblance. 
We  had  a  lodger,  a  year  ago,  whose  eyes  were — 
something  like  yours." 

"Exactly  the  same,"  said  Mrs.  Pindar.  "Same 
eyes.  Same  man  or  woman.  But  the  clothes  are 
better.  Yes,  yes !  More  ladylike.  But  not  coffee  in 
church.  Never  that!"  And  with  another  curtsy 
she  walked  away  into  the  cottage. 

"Then  you  are  Mrs.  Pindar's  daughter?" 

"Yes." 

"I  am  sorry,  so  very  sorry,  that  her  mind  is 
affected." 

"It  has  been  this  way  for  a  dozen  years.  Did 
you  wish  to  see  her  about  anything  in  which  I  could 
take  her  place?" 

"No,  no.  Nothing  important.  Just  a  friendly 
call.  I  used  to  know  her,  years  ago." 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  your  name?" 

Believing  the  name  could  have  no  significance  to 
this  girl  she  answered : 


Pandora's   Box 

"Merely  an  old  acquaintance ;  Mrs.  Lovejoy." 

"Lovejoy !"  And  Sally  Pindar's  face  shone  with 
a  new  light.  "Oh,  I  know  now  from  your  eyes! 
Ethan  Lovejoy  is  your  brother." 

"Brother!  Oh,  you  flatterer!  He  is  my  son, 
such  as  he  is." 

"Such  as  he  is!  Why,  he  is  perfect.  So  kind, 
and  honest,  and  brave!  He  saved  my  life — at  the 
risk  of  his  own!" 

"Did  he  ?    I  don't  know  your  name — " 

"Sally  Pindar." 

"He  did  a  good  deed,  Sally  Pindar.  The  time  was 
well  spent.  Whoever  feels  that  way  about  my  son 
has  a  permanent  place  in  my  heart."  As  she  spoke 
she  took  the  girl's  hand. 

Sally's  eyes  had  become  moist,  and  she  seemed 
to  swallow  something  before  she  could  speak.  "Will 
you  please  give  him  a  message  from  me?" 

Mrs.  Lovejoy's  eyebrows  went  up.  "What !  An 
other  woman  with  a  message?  Yes,  of  course. 
What  is  the  message?  I  will  give  it  with  pleas 
ure." 

"When  he  went  away — and  he  went  quite  unex 
pectedly,  in  a  great  hurry — he  left  money  to  a  dog." 

"To  a  dog!" 

"Yes.  A  homeless  dog  he  had  adopted.  And  he 
gave  the  money  to  me.  But  I  never  see  the  dog. 
He  lives  at  the  castle  stables,  where  they  like  him 
and  treat  him  well.  So,  will  you  please  ask  him 
what  I  shall  do  with  the  money?  Or  shall  I  give 
it  to  you?" 


If  273 

"How  much  was  it  ?" 

"Five  pounds." 

"Better  keep  it.  The  beneficiary  might  need  it 
later.  Are  you  speaking  of  Baseborn?" 

"Yes.    Do  you  know  Baseborn?" 

"I  met  the  gentleman  this  afternoon.  He  may  be 
good,  but — "  and  Mrs.  Lovejoy  with  a  solemn  face 
slowly  shook  her  head. 

Sally  Pindar  laughed.  "No,  he  is  not  beautiful. 
But  your  son  liked  him." 

"My  son  could  like  almost  anything  on  four  legs. 
This  Baseborn  may  be  a  scheming  villain — some 
devil  thinly  disguised.  He  certainly  has  the  appear 
ance  of  a  perfect  ruffian." 

Again  Sally  Pindar  laughed.  "But  he  is  really 
very  amiable,  and  honest." 

Mrs.  Lovejoy  took  out  her  watch.  "Dear  me! 
I've  not  a  minute  to  lose !  Good-bye,  Sally  Pindar. 
And  say  good-bye  for  me  to  your  mother." 

Sally  grasped  the  extended  hand.  "And  please 
tell  your  son  that  I  shall  never  forget  what  he  did 
for  me.  And  also  please  tell  him  about  Baseborn. 
They  were  very  close  friends." 

Mrs.  Lovejoy  promised,  then  hurried  away.  With 
in  the  doorway  of  the  cottage  she  stopped,  turned 
about  and  said : 

"You  may  see  me  again." 

Then,  the  next  moment,  Sally  heard  the  little 
front  gate  as  it  closed. 

And  the  unexpected  visitor  was  gone. 


2/4  Pandora's    Box 

When  the  daughter  of  the  castle  had  closed  the 
creaking  old  door  behind  the  departing  visitor  she 
moved  slowly,  in  deepest  meditation,  through  the 
silent  garden,  and  along  the  cloistered  arches — still 
thinking.  Midway  along  these  cloistered  arches  she 
stopped  abruptly.  With  a  chilling  thought  came  a 
sudden  pallor,  followed  by  burning  cheeks.  Fierce 
ly  against  the  burning  cheeks  she  pressed  her  hands. 
What  if  this  mother — and  what  more  natural  than 
for  a  mother  to  do  it? — what  if  this  mother  should 
deliver  the  message  with  a  warmer  coloring,  and 
to  a  son  whose  interest  had  waned ! 

Hot  with  shame,  angry  with  herself,  all  her 
Drumworth  pride  in  passionate  revolt,  affronted  yet 
helpless,  it  seemed  as  if  she  were  drinking  to  its 
very  dregs,  the  cup  of  humiliation.  All  that  a  sen 
sitive  being  may  suffer  beneath  a  blow  that  crushes 
pride — in  this  case  the  extravagant,  over-cultivated 
pride  of  an  exalted  spirit — Octavia  was  now  en 
during.  And  Ethan  Lovejoy  might,  perhaps,  ex 
plain  the  trivial  episode  to  his  mother — and  also, 
perhaps,  feel  a  gentle  pity  for  the  sender  of  the 
message!  Never  before  had  her  sense  of  shame 
been  so  unbearable — so  bitterly  mortifying.  For  a 
moment  she  almost  hated  the  man  and  his  mother. 

When  she  started  on  again  her  brain  seemed  dull, 
— a  trifle  dizzy.  And  her  limbs  were  weaker.  More 
mindful  of  her  steps  than  usual  she  moved  slowly 
along  the  terrace,  into  the  castle,  and  up  the  great 
staircase.  On  the  landing  she  met  her  grandfather, 


If  275 

who  was  starting  for  London.  With  Mrs.  Lovejoy's 
story  fresh  in  her  mind,  she  drew  back,  a  very 
little,  and  looked  into  the  old  gentleman's  face  with 
a  new  but  less  confiding  interest.  The  cold  blue 
eyes  seemed  colder  than  before  she  heard  his  second 
wife's  story.  She  noticed  now,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  that  the  white  mustache  failed  to  hide  the 
straight,  hard  line  of  the  mouth;  an  idle  mouth  the 
last  thirty-three  years,  save  when  eating  and  drink 
ing.  She  also  noticed,  but  not  for  the  first  time, 
the  pugnacity  and  iron  will  of  his  bony,  heavy  chin. 
And  she  recalled  Ethan  Lovejoy's  question  in  the 
Old  Hall  when  he  discovered  the  portrait :  "Who 
is  the  tough  looking  chap  with  the  jaw?" 

The  grandfather  in  turn  seemed  struck  by  some 
thing  unusual  in  her  own  face.  As  he  stopped  be 
fore  her  on  the  landing,  the  chilling  eyes  looked 
searchingly  into  her  own.  His  right  hand  came  up, 
and  the  fingers  inquired: 

"Not  feeling  well?" 

"Yes,  well  enough." 

"Very  tired?" 

"Just  a  little  tired." 

"Rest.    Don't  go  down  to  dinner." 

Octavia  obeyed,  willingly. 

^  Entering    the    library    the    earl    tapped    Auntie 
George's  arm  to  secure  attention. 

"Dark  lines  again  under  Octavia's  eyes.  Seemed 
really  weak  as  she  climbed  upstairs." 

"I  don't  understand  it.     She  has  been  at  home 


276  Pandora's    Box 

long  enough  to  rest  up  after  the  season's  fatigue.'* 

The  fingers  moved  more  nervously.  "You  real 
ize  what  it  means  if  she  isn't  well  enough  to  marry, 
and  marry  well." 

"Yes.  Indeed  I  do !"  And  the  lady's  chin  rose 
slightly  as  she  added,  "It  must  be  an  old  title." 

"Or  new  money — if  plenty  of  it,"  jerked  the 
fingers. 

"You  don't  mean  that  you  or  Robert  would  ever 
allow  Octavia  to  marry  beneath  her !" 

The  old  fingers  almost  laughed.  "If  he's  rich 
enough."  And  while  Auntie  George  was  trying  to 
frame  a  sentence  that  might  convey  some  idea  of  her 
abhorrence  the  fingers  added:  "As  soon  as  she  is 
well  enough  I  shall  have  a  serious  talk  with  her." 

Then  they  moved  away.  Five  minutes  later  they 
were  on  their  way  to  the  station. 

In  the  train  to  London,  that  afternoon,  the  Earl 
of  Drumworth  had  a  singular  experience.  Between 
Reading  and  Windsor  he  was  dozing  peacefully 
when  a  woman's  voice  from  the  seat  directly  oppo 
site,  her  knees  almost  touching  his  own,  awakened 
with  a  sudden  shock  his  slumbering  senses.  The 
voice,  to  him,  was  unlike  all  other  voices.  Not  heard 
in  thirty  years  it  came  as  from  the  grave.  But  it 
was  unchanged;  smooth,  melodious,  pleasant  to  the 
ear.  Now,  it  had  merely  answered,  in  the  fewest 
words,  a  commonplace  question  from  another  trav 
eler.  But  the  memories  it  aroused  were  memories 


If  277 

of  hated  things,  deep  buried  and  accursed.  For  an 
instant  the  Earl  of  Drumworth,  startled  as  in  a 
ghostly  dream,  dared  not  look  in  that  direction.  His 
heart  beat  faster,  his  hands  trembled.  When  his 
eyes  opened  he  was  prepared  to  see — yet  not  believ 
ing  it  possible — the  girl  as  he  remembered  her;  a 
timid,  slender  bride. 

What  he  really  saw,  however,  was  a  woman  in 
dark  blue,  middle  aged,  and  plump.  Through  the 
veil  that  covered  her  face  he  could  distinguish  noth 
ing.  But  he  pictured  in  his  mind  the  features — fat 
and  commonplace.  With  a  frown  and  a  twitching 
of  the  lips  he  sank  lower  in  his  corner,  and  closed 
his  eyes. 

But  the  businesslike  talk  with  Octavia  never  took 
place.  A  week  went  by,  and  it  was  evident,  even  to 
the  grandfather,  that  she  was  in  no  condition  for 
that  sort  of  interview.  Then  a  month  went  by,  fol 
lowed  by  other  months  in  which  even  Dr.  Wherry 
was  unable  to  explain  things. 

When  a  patient  loses  strength  and  color,  without 
an  ache  or  pain ;  eats  little  and  complains  less ;  laughs 
and  jokes,  refusing  to  be  serious,  then,  indeed,  the 
wisest  doctor  is  no  better  than  an  engineer,  a  lawyer 
or  an  architect. 


XXIII 

ANOTHER  JUNE  MORNING 

IN  the  Garden  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty,  now  long 
deserted,  there  is  silence.    Above  the  old  stone 
seat  the  ivy  reaches  forth  its  tendrils  as  if  to 
hide    again    the    inscription    proclaiming    in    time- 
stained  letters, 

T!u*  kosyie,  Bench e  **.  oootfe 
Moone  ;pce rfetfe  trew" 

And  higher  up,  near  the  great  window,  the  roses 
of  Anne  Boleyn,  pale,  disconsolate,  saddened  by 
tragic  memories,  yield  their  timid  fragrance. 

Upon  the  walls  of  Drum  worth  Castle  one  passing 
year  makes  faint  impression.  The  vines,  in  places, 
creep  a  foot  or  two  higher.  Certain  stones  of  a  ne 
glected  tower  may  become,  perhaps,  imperceptibly 
looser.  But  from  one  June  to  another  these  changes 
are  unnoticed.  Its  foundations  are  as  solid,  its  walls 
as  high,  as  they  were  five  centuries  ago.  And  it 
smiles  in  sunshine  or  frowns  in  storm,  with  all  its 
youthful  disdain,  upon  the  surrounding  country. 
Judging  from  appearances  it  ignores  Father  Time. 

278 


Another  June  Morning       279 

Not  so  its  perishable  owners.  With  this  coming 
of  another  June  a  change  was  visible.  In  Octavia's 
chamber  the  eyes  that  were  gazing  through  the  mul- 
lioned  window  over  the  meadows  to  the  south,  shone 
from  an  altered  face — a  face  with  paler  cheeks.  And 
the  face  showed  even  greater  weariness  than  the 
fragile  figure  in  the  easy  chair. 

Octavia  was  alone.     Her  maid  had  gone  to  the 
distant  kitchen  to  carry  out  the  doctors'  orders.  The 
doctors  themselves  had  just  departed.     Outside  her 
door,  but  so  far  away  their  voices  could  not  reach 
her,  they  were  holding,  with  serious  faces  and  in 
lowered  tones,  a  consultation.     One  of  these  physi 
cians  was  Dr.  Wherry;  the  other  an  eminent  author 
ity  in  nervous  diseases.     He  had  arrived  this  morn 
ing — two    hours  ago — from  London.      There  was 
some  difference  of  opinion  as  to  the  causes  of  the 
patient's  decline,  but  they  agreed  in  this,  that  their 
diagnosis  was  a  guess.      These    physicians— both 
elderly  men— had  met  similar  cases.     And  the  re 
sults,  with  rare    exceptions,  had    always  been  the 
same.     Their  present    duty  was    merely  to  render 
their  verdict  to  the  family  without  causing  alarm. 
As  they  stood  at  the  head  of  the  great  staircase 
they  noticed,  carelessly,  a  girl  who  tiptoed  past  them. 
She  was  moving  toward  the  chamber  they  had  just 
left    After  a  timid  knock  she  entered,  timidly,  and 
as  timidly  closed  the  door.    Then  she  advanced,  al 
ways  timidly,  toward  the  invalid. 

Octavia,  without  moving  her  head  from  the  high 


280  Pandora's  Box 

backed  chair,  slowly  turned  her  eyes — eyes  which 
nothing  seemed  to  interest — toward  this  visitor. 

"Good  morning,  Lucy." 

"Good  morning,  your  ladyship." 

Lucy  Lake,  the  daughter  of  the  laundress,  was 
seventeen  years  of  age.  Her  cheeks  were  round  and 
red.  Her  mouth,  also  round  and  red,  was  very  short. 
But  her  eyes,  wide  open,  brown  eyes,  were  larger 
than  her  mouth  and  surpassingly  honest.  So  wide 
was  the  face  and  so  thin  the  girlish  neck  that  the 
effect  was  almost  comical. 

In  the  middle  of  the  chamber  the  maiden  halted. 

In  sincerest  sorrow  she  gazed  upon  the  lady  in  the 
chair.  This  manner  of  administering  sympathy  is 
always  trying  for  the  victim.  But  this  victim  smiled, 
and  inquired,  in  the  gentlest  of  voices : 

"What  is  it,  Lucy?" 

Then  into  the  pale  face  of  the  invalid  came  a  look 
of  surprise  as  the  hand  at  Lucy's  back  moved  for 
ward  from  its  hiding  and  held  forth  a  rose — one  of 
the  rare,  unattainable,  pink  and  white,  melancholy 
roses  of  Anne  Boleyn! 

Octavia  blinked — and  looked  again.  Lucy  Lake 
stepped  nearer  and  presented  it.  Octavia  took  the 
rose  and  inhaled  its  faint  perfume — the  sad  little 
fragrance  of  the  saddest  of  flowers.  And  it  seemed 
to  Lucy  Lake  that  the  pink  of  the  rose  was  reflected 
in  the  lady's  cheeks. 

After  a  silence  came  a  question,  but  in  a  voice  so 
low  that  it  barely  carried.  "Where  did  you  get  it?" 


Another  June  Morning 

"Does  your  ladyship  remember  the  old  garden 
away  at  the  end  of — " 

"Yes,  I  remember." 

"A  gentleman  out  there  just  gave  it  to  rne." 

"What  gentleman?" 

"I  don't  know." 

With  a  faint  movement  of  impatience,  "How  does 
he  look?" 

"He  is  tall,  your  ladyship.  In  grey  clothes.  Not 
very  handsome." 

"He  didn't  give  his  name?" 

"No,  your  ladyship." 

For  a  moment  the  invalid,  with  half  shut  eyes, 
seemed  lost  in  reflection  as  she  breathed  the  fra 
grance  of  the  rose.  At  last,  with  an  effort,  she 
turned  in  her  chair  and  pointed  to  a  portrait  on  the 
wall.  It  was  the  portrait  of  the  Countess  of  Drum- 
worth  that  had  been  occupying  this,  its  original  posi 
tion,  since  last  November — since  Octavia  discovered 
it  among  other  exiles  in  the  gallery  of  the  Old  Hall. 

"Do  you  see  that  lady — in  the  oval  frame?" 

"Yes,  your  ladyship." 

"Does  she  resemble,  in  any  way,  this  man  in  the 
old  garden?  Step  nearer." 

Lucy  stepped  nearer.  "No,  your  ladyship.  I 
should  not — why,  yes!  The  eyes  may  be  alike, 
mayn't  they?" 

"Is  he  short  and  rather  fat?" 

"No,  your  ladyship.    He  is  tall  and  bony  like." 

The  pale  lady  sank  back  among  her  cushions.    'As 


282  Pandora's   Box 

she  turned  her  eyes  toward  the  window,  she  inquired 
carelessly, 

"How  did  you  happen  to  meet  him?  Were  you 
in  the  old  garden  when  he  came  there?" 

"No,  your  ladyship.  I  came  over  in  the  ferry 
boat,  and  he  was  in  the  boat,  too." 

"Well,  go  on." 

Lucy  Lake  cleared  her  throat.  "As  I  was  walk 
ing  up  the  path  to  the  castle,  he  was  walking  be 
hind  and  he  stopped  me  and  asked  if  I  belonged  to 
the  castle.  I  said  I  did.  Then  he  asked  me  if  I 
saw  your  ladyship  sometimes.  I  said  I  did.  Then 
he  took  a  card  from  his  pocket  and  felt  in  another 
pocket  for  a  pencil.  Then  in  all  his  pockets.  But 
he  couldn't  find  one.  He  asked  me  if  I  had  a  pencil. 
I  said  no.  Then  he  seemed  angry." 

"Angry  with  you?" 

"Oh,  no !  Not  angry  with  me.  Angry  with  him 
self,  I  should  think.  He  said  things." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"I  didn't  hear,  your  ladyship.  They  were  mut- 
terings.  Just  a  word  or  two.  But  very  cross." 

"Go  on." 

"But  I  think  an  idea  came  to  him.  He  seemed 
pleasanter,  of  a  sudden.  He  told  me  to  follow  him, 
and  he  started  up  the  little  path  toward  the  east 
end  of  the  castle,  toward  that  old  garden.  Does 
your  ladyship  remember  the  heavy  door  that  leads 
into  that  garden  from  the  riverside?  Where  the 
stone  steps — " 


Another  June  Morning       283 

"Yes,  I  remember." 

"Well,  he — he  did  a  suspicious  thing." 

"Suspicious?" 

"Yes,  your  ladyship.  He  picked  up  a  thin  strip 
of  iron  hidden  in  the  bushes  beside  the  step,  and 
stuck  it  in  the  key-hole  and  opened  the  door — just 
as  a  thief  would!" 

Lucy  waited  a  moment,  expecting  some  comment 
on  an  act  of  this  nature.  But  her  ladyship,  leaning 
back  among  the  cushions  of  the  easy  chair,  held  the 
rose  to  her  nostrils  and  said  nothing.  In  her  eyes 
was  an  expression  that  Lucy  Lake  did  not  quite 
understand.  It  seemed  almost  mirthful. 

"Go  on.  He's  an  American.  Perhaps  they  all 
pick  locks." 

"But  I  didn't  quite  fancy  it.  If  he  could  open 
that  door  he  might  open  any  door  in  the  whole 
castle." 

"Has  he  a  thievish  face?" 

"Oh,  no!  He  is  not  handsome,  but  I  liked  his 
face — until  he  picked  the  lock." 

"If  he  is  really  a  thief,  Lucy,  he  would  not  pick 
the  lock  when  others  are  watching.  What  did  he  do 
next?" 

"When  the  door  was  opened  he  motioned  for  me 
to  go  in.  I  was  a  bit  frightened,  he  being  a  strange 
man.  But  I  thought  there  was  no  more  danger  in 
the  castle  than  out.  So  I  went  in." 

"Yes.     And  then  what?" 

"When  I  was  in  he  shut  the  door.    Then  I  was 


284  Pandora's  Box 

really  frightened,  for  he  did  a  crazy  thing.  I 
thought  he  must  be  demented.  Against  the  wall  of 
the  Old  Hall  is  a  stone  bench  with  an  arm  at 
each—" 

"Yes,  I  know  the  bench." 

"As  he  walked  toward  that  bench  he  took  off  his 
hat  and  coat  and  laid  them  on  one  of  the  arms. 
Then  he  stepped  up  onto  the  seat,  then  onto  the 
other  arm.  Then  he  reached  up  to  a  molding 
that—" 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"He  put  one  foot,  higher  up,  on  a  carved  stone, 
that  sticks  out  just— 

"Yes,  I  remember." 

"Then  he  reached  way  up,  higher  still,  and  pulled 
himself  up  and  up  until  he  could  almost  reach  a  rose. 
Those  roses,  like  the  one  in  your  ladyship's  hand 
only  grow  high  up  on  the  wall  above  the — " 

"Yes,  I  know.    He  finally  picked  one?" 

"Yes,  your  ladyship.  The  one  in  your  hand.  I 
was  afraid  he  would  fall  and  hurt  himself.  But  he 
got  down  safely.  I  think  he  is  out  of  his  head  a 
little." 

"Why  do  you  think  that,  Lucy?" 

"Because  the  old  garden  has  lots  of  flowers  all 
prettier  than  this  one,  and  much  safer  to  pick." 

Octavia  closed  her  eyes  and  answered  softly, 
"Perhaps  he  had  some  reason  of  his  own  for  pre- 
'ferring  one  of  these." 

"What  reason  could  he  have,  your  ladyship?" 


Another  June  Morning       285 

"I  couldn't  say.    Then  he  handed  you  the  rose?" 

"Yes,  your  ladyship." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  asked  me  to  give  it  to  you." 

"Tell  me  just  what  he  said." 

"He  said — "  Lucy  Lake  spoke  slowly,  with  evi 
dent  desire  to  tell  nothing  but  the  truth—  '  'Give 
this  to  Lady  Octavia  and  ask  her — if  I  can — if  it  is 
possible  for  me  to  speak  to  her — or  with  her — I 
forget  which.' ' 

"Then  you  came  away?" 

"No,  your  ladyship.  He  gave  me  this."  And 
Lucy  held  up  a  golden  coin.  "He  said,  'Come  back 
here  and  tell  me  just  what  she  says  and  does  and 
how  she  looks  and  everything  that  happens/  ' 

The  lady's  eyebrows  went  up.  "He  said  that, 
did  he?" 

Lucy  Lake  nodded.  "And  he  also  said  for  me  to 
come  back  to  him  at  once." 

"There  is  no  hurry." 

"But,  your  ladyship,  he  thinks  there  is." 

"He  is  mistaken." 

"But  he  is  waiting  in  the  old  garden.  He  is  walk 
ing  up  and  down,  most  impatient  and  anxious  like." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"I  looked  back  as  I  left  the  garden,  and  saw  him. 
He  had  begun  already  to  walk  up  and  down,  doing 
his  hands." 

"Doing  his  hands?" 

"I  mean  striking  the  inside  of  one  hand  with  the 


286  Pandora's  Box 

fist  of  the  other.  He  was — he  was — fussed  up  like. 
I  am  sure  he  is  in  a  hurry." 

"He  can  wait.  And  when  you  go  back  to  him 
you  must  not  tell  him  of  all  my  questions." 

"But  he  may  ask  me."  And  Lucy  looked  down 
upon  the  gold  piece  in  her  hand.  Octavia  realized, 
with  a  sudden  fear,  that  the  girl  felt  it  her  duty  to 
give  him  his  money's  worth. 

For  a  moment  she  studied  the  ambassadress.  The 
illuminating  quality  of  this  almost  comic  face  was 
honesty — unswerving  and  incorruptible.  Even  as 
a  child  Lucy  had  enjoyed  the  reputation  of  being 
needlessly  veracious.  She  was  startlingly  truthful. 
So  astonishingly  frank  that  she  had  always  been  a 
source  of  embarrassment — sometimes  of  danger — 
to  her  more  diplomatic  friends.  She  was  a  victim  to 
that  misdirected  sense  of  duty  known  in  America 
as  a  New  England  conscience.  Octavia  had  known 
her  from  infancy,  and  now  into  the  lady's  voice 
came  a  note  of  alarm.  "Of  course  you  must  tell 
him  the  truth,  Lucy,  but  it  is  needless  to  tell  him 
everything.  Now  take  this  rose  and  hand  it  to  me 
again." 

Lucy  obeyed. 

"Tell  him  I  took  it,  held  it  to  my  face  an  instant, 
like  this,  inquired  who  sent  it,  then  laid  it  in  my 
lap — as  you  see  I  do — and  that  I  told  you  to  thank 
him  for  it.  Also  tell  him  that  I  say  he  may  call 
tomorrow  afternoon  at  five  o'clock;  that  I  will  see 
him  if  I  am  strong  enough.  You  can  tell  him  mere- 


Another  June   Morning       287 

ly  that  and  nothing  more,  yet  still  be  perfectly  truth 
ful.     Can  you  not?" 

"Yes,  your  ladyship." 

"Hand  me  a  book."  And  Octavia  pointed  to  a 
neighboring  table. 

Lucy  took  up  a  book,  read  the  title,  then  laid  it 
down  again. 

"Oh,  any  book  will  do,"  said  Octavia. 

Lucy  brought  the  book  and  placed  it  in  the  out 
stretched  hand. 

"Tell  him,"  continued  the  invalid,  "that  I  then 
took  my  book — as  I  do — and  went  on  with  my  read- 
ing." 

"Yes,  your  ladyship." 

"Now,  you  are  sure  you  understand?" 

"Yes,  your  ladyship." 

"Very  well.  Now  go  to  him,  and  be  sure  and 
tell  him  only  this  last  part  of  our  interview." 

As  the  ambassadress  turned  away  Octavia  added, 
as  an  unimportant  afterthought,  "You  might  come 
back  and  let  me  know  what  happens." 

"Yes,  your  ladyship." 

"But  don't  tell  him  I  told  you  to." 

"No,  your  ladyship." 

The  envoy  curtsied,  solemnly,  and  departed. 


XXIV 

A  DIPLOMATIC  INCIDENT 

ANOTHER  five  minutes;  and  Lucy  Lake  en 
tered  the  old  garden. 

The  deranged  person  was  still  pacing  the 
gravel  walk,  to  and  fro  in  front  of  the  stone  seat, 
as  she  had  left  him  half  an  hour  ago. 

The  brown  leather  cap,  pushed  back  on  his  head, 
allowed  a  clearer  view  of  his  mud  stained  face. 
And  such  a  face  was  one  more  proof,  in  Lucy's 
eyes,  of  a  disordered  brain  within.  For  this  person 
seemed  strangely  unconventional:  and  to  be  un 
conventional  was,  with  Lucy  Lake,  the  clearest  in 
dication  of  an  unsound  mind.  Moreover,  although 
his  face  and  his  clothes  were  wet,  he  seemed  uncon 
scious  of  the  drizzling  rain.  Any  stranger  who  with 
muddy  clothes  and  dirty  face  could  wish  to  make  a 
formal  call  on  such  a  person  as  the  Lady  Octavia 
must  indeed  be  flighty. 

The  prospect  of  an  interview  with  this  crack- 
brained  gentleman  off  here  in  the  deserted  garden 
was  disquieting.  But  Lucy  was  ready  to  face  any 
danger  for  her  idolized  mistress.  Besides,  the  Lady 
Octavia  herself  did  not  consider  him  unsafe. 

288 


A  Diplomatic   Incident       289 

'As  the  ambassadress  appeared,  the  face  of  the 
lunatic  brightened.     He  came  rapidly  forward. 
"Did  you  see  her?" 
"Yes,  sir." 

"And  you  gave  her  the  flower?" 
"Yes,  sir." 

"Did  she  seem  surprised  or — anything?" 
Lucy  hesitated.    "I  couldn't  say,  sir." 
"But  didn't  you  notice?" 
"Yes,  sir.    I  noticed  whatever  there  was." 
"And  you  could  not  see  the  slightest  surprise,  or 
pleasure  or  displeasure,  or  any  expression  whatever 
on  her  face?" 
"No,  sir." 

He  took  a  backward  step,  and  regarded  her  as  if 
suspecting  falsehood.  She  understood  the  look.  A 
blush  came  into  her  honest  face.  UI  am  trying  to 
tell  you  the  truth,  sir — and  do  my  duty." 

He  smiled.    "I  hope  your  truth  and  duty  are  not 
opposing  forces." 
"No,  sir." 

"They  can  work  together  sometimes.  But  did 
n't  she  say  anything  at  all,  or  ask  a  question?" 

"She  asked  what  your  name  was  and  I  said  I 
didn't  know,  which  was  the  truth,  sir." 

"Of  course!    Of  course!    But  didn't  she  appear 
to  know  who  sent  it?" 
Lucy  said  nothing. 
"Didn't  she  ask  for  any  sort  of  description?" 


Pandora's  Box 

Still  hampered  by  the  unrelenting  conscience  Lucy 
made  no  reply. 

More  impatiently  he  inquired,  'Then  she  took  it 
as  a  matter  of  course,  just  as  an  everyday  occur 
rence?" 

Lucy's  silence  and  her  look  of  indecision  clearly 
indicated  an  inward  struggle. 

"Did  she  receive  it  as  she  would  a — an  old  news 
paper  for  instance?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Did  she  toss  it  out  of  the  window?" 

"Oh  no,  sir!    She  took  it  twice." 

"Took  it  twice?" 

"Yes,  sir.  She  handed  it  back  to  me  and  then 
took  it  again.  I  was  to  be  sure  and  tell  you." 

He  frowned,  as  if  bewildered.  "You  say  she  told 
you  to  tell  me  that  she  took  it  twice?" 

"No,  sir.    That  she  only  took  it  the  second  time." 

"Then  she  took  it  twice,  but  not  the  first  time." 

"Yes,  sir." 

As  he  closed  his  eyes  and  drew  a  hand  across  his 
forehead,  obviously  in  some  mental  confusion,  Lucy 
felt  surer  than  ever  of  his  disordered  reason.  But 
there  was  something  in  his  personality  that  she 
liked.  Instead  of  fearing,  she  began  to  pity  him. 

"But  why—  '  he  murmured — "why  could — how 
— why  did  she  say — or  do — that?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir." 

It  was  now  the  daft  man's  turn  to  study  the  coun 
tenance  of  the  ambassadress  for  signs  of  wandering 


A   Diplomatic   Incident       29l 

wits.  But  the  big,  round,  honest  eyes  looked  calmly 
into  his  own  with  an  inert  but  stable  sanity.  The 
brain  behind  those  eyes  was  unimaginative  perhaps, 
slow  moving  and  incapable  of  sudden  readjustment, 
but  it  was  normal. 

Gently,  but  somewhat  wearily,  he  asked,  "Was 
that  all  she  said — or  did — or  did  not?" 

"No,  sir.  She  said  to  thank  you  for  the  rose,  and 
that  she  would  see  you  tomorrow  at  five  o'clock." 

"Tomorrow!    Why  not  today?" 

"She  did  not  say,  sir." 

"Are  you  sure  it  was  tomorrow*,  and  not  today?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Very  sure.  I  think  she  is  not  up  to 
it." 

"Not  up  to  it?" 

"Yes,  sir.  No,  sir.  Not  up  to  seeing  you  today, 
sir.  She  said  she  would  see  you  tomorrow  at  five 
o'clock  if  she  was  well  enough." 

"Oh!"  and  the  lunatic's  face  became  more  grave 
and  he  looked  away,  over  the  meadows.  So  melan 
choly,  indeed,  was  his  expression  that  Lucy,  whose 
heart  was  tender,  felt  yet  more  pity  for  him.  But 
the  uncompromising  conscience  permitted  no  wan 
derings  from  the  path  of  duty;  and  she  added: 

"After  she  said  that,  and  had  smelled  the  rose, 
she  took  up  a  book  and  went  on  with  her  reading." 

Whereupon  the  eyes  of  the  demented  gentleman 
came  back  from  the  meadows  and  met  her  own  with 
a  look  that  told  plainly  of  an  unexpected  blow;  of 
a  sharp  distress. 


Pandora's   Box 

Deep  was  Lucy's  sympathy.  But  as  she  could 
think  of  nothing  more  encouraging  on  the  instant 
she  remarked,  merely  to  break  the  silence, 

"The  book  was  a  dictionary." 

The  demented  one  nodded,  as  acknowledgment 
of  unimportant  news.  "She  was  reading  French  or 
German,  perhaps." 

"No,  sir.    It  was  an  English  dictionary." 

"Then  she  had  another  book,  too?" 

"No,  sir.    Only  the  dictionary." 

Then  he — himself  suspected  of  dementia — began 
to  wonder  if  some  mysterious  malady  had  disturbed 
Lady  Octavia's  brain. 

From  the  corners  of  his  eyes  he  regarded  the  am 
bassadress.  "When  you  entered  the  room  she  was 
reading  an  English  dictionary?" 

Lucy  frowned,  and  again  showed  embarrassment. 
"I  did  not  say  that,  sir." 

"You  said  she  took  up  her  book  and  went  on 
with  the  reading." 

Lucy  looked  away. 

"Didn't  you?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  must  excuse  me  if  I  seem  fussy  or  impa 
tient.  But  I  landed  at  Portsmouth  last  night  and 
have  been  steering  my  motor  through  mud  and  rain 
in  the  dark,  ever  since.  Possibly  I  am  unreasonably 
nervous.  I  may  be  slow  of  comprehension,  and  I 
confess  with  shame  that,  in  spite  of  your  report,  I 
have  not  a  clear  understanding  of  just  what  hap- 


A  Diplomatic  Incident        293 

pened.  But  when  you  presented  the  rose  she  showed 
no  surprise  or  interest.  She  simply  took  it  without 
really  taking  it  and  inquired  the  name  of  the  sender, 
which  you  could  not  give.  Then  she  handed  it  back 
to  you  but  took  it  again,  the  second  time,  which  you 
say  was  the  first  time,  and  told  you  to  be  sure  and 
mention  that  fact." 

Lucy's  cheeks  became  redder,  and  she  looked 
away.  "No,  sir,  not  that  exactly." 

"Then  she  told  you  to  thank  me  for  it.  Said 
I  might  call  tomorrow  at  five  o'clock  if  she  were 
well  enough.  Then  she  laid  the  rose  in  her  lap, 
and  took  up  the  English  dictionary,  the  perusal  of 
which  you  and  the  rose  had  interrupted." 

Lucy  remained  silent,  her  troubled  eyes  on  the 
distant  church  tower. 

Again  he  smiled.  "Well,  that's  all  right.  Peo 
ple  when  desperately  ill  do  not,  as  a  rule,  seek  con 
solation  in  the  dictionary.  However,  I  respect  your 
sense  of  duty.  Would  you  mind  telling  me  your 
name?" 

"Lucy  Lake." 

"Mine  is  Ethan  Lovejoy.  And  as  we  are  two 
honest  people  who  never  betray  our  friends — that 
is,  intentionally — we  can  understand  and  respect 
each  other.  But  there  is  one  thing  you  can  tell  me, 
Lucy,  and  still  be  faithful  to  Lady  Octavia — you 
can  tell  me  just  how  she  looks.  Is  she  pale  and 
thin?" 

"Oh  yes,  sir!" 


294  Pandora's   Box 

"Much  changed  since  a  year  ago?" 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed,  sir!  It's  terrible."  And  the 
large,  round  eyes  suddenly  filled  with  tears.  The 
demented  one's  face  also  became  more  serious. 

"She  has  always  been  so  good !"  Lucy  added  with 
a  quivering  lip,  "so  good!" 

"Yes,  we  all  know  that,"  he  murmured. 

"She  never  forgot  my  birthday.  From  Paris,  two 
years  ago,  she  sent  me  a  locket."  And  drawing  from 
her  sleeve  a  little  white  handkerchief  with  yellow 
dots  Lucy  wiped  two  tears  from  her  cheeks.  "And 
she  gave  me  this  waterproof  I  have  on.  And  now 
there  are  two  doctors." 

"Two  doctors  besides  Dr.  Wherry?" 

"No,  sir.  Dr.  Wherry  and  one  other ;  a  nervous 
doctor." 

"A  nervous  doctor?" 

"Yes,  sir.  He  came  down  specially  from  London, 
this  morning." 

Then  he  of  disordered  reason  hazarded  a  guess. 
"You  mean,  perhaps,  a  doctor  in  nervous  diseases?" 

"I  couldn't  say,  sir,  but  it's  something  dreadful. 
She  may  die." 

"Die!     Nonsense!    Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"Because  nobody  knows  what  is  the  matter  with 
her." 

Somewhat  impatiently  he  retorted:  "That's  no 
proof  that  she  is  going  to  die." 

But  in  a  plesanter  tone  he  said:  "Cheer  up. 
Don't  cry,"  and  he  patted  her  arm.  "She  may  get 
well." 


A  Diplomatic  Incident        295 

He  took  some  coins  from  a  pocket.  "And  I  am 
much  obliged  to  you  for  what  you  have  done." 

Lucy  backed  away.  "No,  sir,  don't  give  me  any 
more  money!" 

"Why  not?    You  have  earned  it." 

"No,  sir,  I  have  not." 

Returning  the  coins  to  his  pocket,  he  held  out  his 
hand.  She  seemed  surprised. 

"Shake  hands,"  he  insisted. 

Hesitatingly  she  laid  her  hand  in  his.  The  strong 
fingers  closed  over  it  in  a  friendly  pressure.  "You 
are  a  good  girl,  Lucy  Lake,  and  you  have  qualities 
that  are  worth  more  than  all  the  money  in  the  world. 
You  have  done  your  best  to  keep  faith  with  both  of 
us.  Please  count  me  among  your  friends.  Good 
bye." 

Into  her  moist  eyes  came  a  brighter  look.  She 
could  only  stammer,  "Thank  you,  sir — very  much." 
And,  with  a  curtsy,  she  turned  and  hurried  from 
the  garden. 


XXV 


"SCIENCE  DEMANDS  IT" 


WHILE  Lucy  Lake,  with  good  intentions, 
was  trying  to  mingle  truth  with  diplomacy 
at  the  far  end  of  the  castle,  the  two  doc 
tors  still  consulted  at  the  head  of  the  great  stair 
case.  This  long  drawn  conference  was  not  the  re 
sult  of  any  difference  of  opinion.  It  resulted  from 
a  careful  revision  of  the  case,  and  from  some  dif 
ficulty  in  deciding  the  best  manner  of  announcing 
the  verdict.  The  verdict  was  unfavorable.  To 
dress  up  Ignorance  in  the  shining  robes  of  Wisdom 
requires,  at  times,  consideration.  This  was  one  of 
those  occasions.  Both  doctors,  however,  were  men 
of  experience.  At  last,  fully  prepared,  they  de 
scended  to  the  waiting  family. 

The  old  earl,  Lady  Georgiana  and  Lord  Aylesden 
were  seated  in  the  library  near  one  of  the  windows. 
In  front  of  this  anxious  group  the  two  physicians 
placed  themselves,  the  Eminent  Specialist  in  a  chair, 
Dr.  Wherry  standing  near.  After  a  brief  but  pain 
ful  silence  the  Eminent  Specialist  began.  He  was 
a  heavy  man  with  a  fine  head,  intelligent  eyes  and 
a  full,  untrimmed,  reddish  beard.  While  not  sloven- 

296 


Science  Demands  It  297 

ly  he  was  somewhat  indifferent  as  to  his  appear 
ance. 

In  a  firm,  steady,  yet  sympathetic  voice  he  in 
formed  his  listeners,  that  in  nervous  afflictions  of 
this  nature  no  two  cases  were  ever  absolutely  simi 
lar  ;  that  symptoms  definite  and  conclusive  with  one 
patient  were  misleading  in  another;  that  each  case 
demanded  its  own  study,  a  fresh  diagnosis  on  in 
dependent  lines;  that  in  these  cases — so  called  ner 
vous — there  existed  an  interweaving  of  mental  and 
physical  disturbances  that  often  contradicted  all 
previous  observation;  that  with  Lady  Octavia 
the  absence  of  guiding  symptoms  of  any  physi 
cal  disease,  combined  with  excessive  waste  of 
tissue  and  exhaustion  of  vitality  from  no  explain 
able  mental  or  emotional  shock,  constituted  the 
uncertainty  of  the  present  disorder.  This,  and 
something  more,  with  an  occasional  introduction 
of  technical  terms,  formed  the  substance  of  his 
remarks. 

"But  surely,  Doctor  van  Home,"  exclaimed 
Auntie  George,  "you  think  she  will  soon  recover!'* 

With  a  slight  shrug  of  the  shoulders  he  an 
swered,  "My  dear  Lady  Georgiana,  there  is  of 
course  that  possibility.  There  is  always  hope." 

"Do  you  really  mean  to  tell  us,"  said  Lord  Ayles- 
den,  "that  she  is — is  really — going  to  be,  indefinite 
ly,  an  invalid?" 

"I  do  not  say  that.  I  feel  it  my  duty,  however, 
to  be  frank  with  you.  In  the  various  cases,  some- 


298  Pandora's   Box 

what  similar,  which  have  come  under  my  observa 
tion  the  recoveries  have  been  very  slow." 

Auntie  George,  in  silence,  closed  her  eyes,  leaned 
back  and  pressed  her  handkerchief  to  her  face.  Lord 
Aylesden  got  up  from  his  chair,  moved  away  and 
stood  before  a  window.  The  Earl  of  Drumworth's 
head  sank  forward.  He  tapped  the  arm  of  his 
chair  with  nervous,  uncertain  fingers. 

And  then  it  was  that  the  impossible  happened. 
The  Eminent  Specialist,  who  sat  with  his  back  to 
the  door,  had  begun  a  speech  of  consoling  intent, 
though  he  promised  little  hope.  "If  I  can  be  of  any 
service  at  any  hour,  Dr.  Wherry  is  to  write  me 
and — "  He  went  no  further. 

Auntie  George  with  a  sudden  exclamation  had 
risen  to  her  feet.  And  after  the  sudden  exclamation 
lier  mouth  remained  open.  Her  eyes,  also  wide 
open,  were  staring,  in  amazement — joy  or  horror — 
toward  the  door  of  the  hall.  The  four  men,  all 
startled  by  her  voice,  turned  their  eyes  in  the  same 
direction.  And  what  they  saw  brought  a  similar 
look  into  their  own  faces.  Dr.  van  Home,  who 
was  sitting  back  to  the  door,  rose  somewhat  hastily 
and  faced  about.  In  so  doing  he  knocked  over  his 
chair. 

In  the  doorway  stood  Octavia.  Not  pale  and  lean 
ing  upon  a  nurse's  arm,  but  erect,  firm  on  her  feet, 
with  color  in  her  cheeks  and  a  smile  on  her  lips. 
Moreover,  from  crown  to  toe  she  was  carefully  and 
daintily  attired.  In  recognition  of  the  general  as- 


Science  Demands  It  299 

tonishment  she  nodded  gayly  to  those  present.     In 
a  voice  equally  gay  she  exclaimed, 

"I  am  feeling  better!" 

Passing  close  to  Dr.  Wherry  she  tapped  his  arm. 
His  only  acknowledgment  of  this  attention  was  a 
scowl  and  a  shake  of  the  head.  Still  she  smiled.  "It 
came  all  of  a  sudden!" 

"I  should  say  it  did,"  he  muttered. 

Then  followed  a  confusion  of  voices :  queries  and 
answers;  expressions  of  delight,  surprise,  almost 
of  unbelief.  Auntie  George  and  Octavia's  father 
had  hastened  forward  as  if  doubting  their  senses 
of  sight  and  of  hearing  until  verified  by  the  sense 
of  touch. 

Dr.  Van  Home  had  not  recognized,  at  once,  this 
new  arrival.  But  the  members  of  the  family  were 
too  deeply  occupied  by  their  own  happiness  to  take 
note  of  other  people.  Dr.  Wherry,  however,  in 
looking  toward  his  famous  colleague  to  discover  how 
this  seeming  miracle  had  affected  him,  saw  that  he 
was  regarding  Octavia  in  frank  astonishment. 

And  why  not?  This  radiant  creature  of  blooming 
color  and  joyful  spirits  bore  little  resemblance  to 
the  pale  and  listless  invalid  whom  he  had  visited  an 
hour  ago.  At  a  word  from  Dr.  Wherry,  however, 
he  understood.  Then,  after  adding  his  own  con 
gratulations  to  those  of  her  overjoyed  family,  he 
addressed  the  maiden. 

"And  I  am  sincerely  glad  that  you  have  received 
such  welcome  news." 

Octavia  raised  her  eyebrows.     "What  news?" 


300  Pandora's   Box 

Dr.  van  Home  smiled.  "Ah,  my  lady,  that  is 
your  own  secret." 

"But  I  have  received  no  news." 

"No  letter,  no  telegram?  No  unexpected  mes 
sage  of  any  kind?" 

"No." 

This  brief  falsehood  was  delivered  with  calm 
eyes,  and  in  a  voice  of  protesting  innocence.  But 
she  could  not  prevent  a  sudden  tingling  in  her 
cheeks. 

In  a  fatherly  manner  he  patted  her  arm. 

"Keep  your  secret,  my  dear  lady.  It  may  move 
in  a  mysterious  way  its  wonders  to  perform,  but  it 
is  surely  beneficial." 

"Oh!  You  think  I  am  keeping  something  from 
you!" 

Dr.  van  Home  smiled.  "I  am  sure  of  it."  Oc- 
tavia  frowned.  But  Dr.  van  Home  maintained  the 
doubting  smile.  "Truth  is  often  exhausting;  and 
now  you  need  strength.  By  the  way,  aren't  you 
hungry?" 

"Yes,  indeed  I  am!" 

"Good !  Eat  at  once.  Something  nourishing  but 
not  too  heavy.  Something  that  will  assimilate  with 
that  life-giving  secret." 

"But  there  is  no  secret."  And  she  laughed,  a  care 
less  little  laugh,  but  with  a  shade  of  embarrassment. 

Entering  the  dining  room  a  few  minutes  later,  in 
obedience  to  the  suddenly  acquired  appetite,  she 
heard  footsteps  behind  her  and  turned  about.  Dr. 


Science  Demands   It 

Wherry  was  just  closing  the  door.     Then,  against 
the  closed  door  he  stood  and  scowled. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  and  moved  toward  him. 
But  he  waved  her  away. 

"What  is  it,  indeed!  Impudence — and  ingrati 
tude;  that's  what  it  is." 

'Why,  Dockey,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"You  have  no  shame  and  no  pride :  nor  honor  nor 
conscience.  That's  what  I  mean." 

Octavia  shook  her  head  reprovingly.  "Oh,  what 
things  to  say!" 

Dr.  Wherry  also  shook  his  head,  but  up  and  down 
solemnly,  with  the  threatening  scowl.  "Even  Dr. 
van  Home  could  not  help  guessing  your  degrading 
secret." 

"Really !"  And  Octavia's  eyebrows  soared  aloft. 
"Then  he  is  wiser  than  I  am." 

"And  I  shall  give  him  further  particulars.  Sci 
ence,  duty,  gratitude,  common  civility,  all  demand 
that  he  shall  know." 

"That  he  shall  know  what?" 

The  little  man  paused  a  moment  before  answer 
ing,  and  his  frown  deepened. 

"That  your  lover  has  come  back  to  you." 

As  if  receiving  a  blow  Octavia  took  a  backward 
step,  her  eyes  fixed  in  alarm  on  the  scowling  man. 
Could  he — was  it  possible  that  he  knew?  No — it 
was  merely  his  guess.  And  she  smiled.  But  her 
hand  trembled  as  she  raised  it  to  her  hair,  as  if  a 
careless  movement.  And  the  voice  was  uncertain 
in  which  she  retorted, 


Pandora's   Box 

"Which  lover  do  you  mean?  There  are  several, 
you  know." 

Dr.  Wherry  straightened  his  spectacles  with  one 
hand,  at  the  same  time  blinking  his  eyes  as  if  angry 
— or  laughing  at  her ;  it  was  hard  to  know  which. 

"I  mean — "  and  again  the  head  moved  slowly  up 
and  down — "I  mean- — the  American.  His  name  is 
Love  joy." 

This  time  Octavia  caught  her  breath,  closed  her 
eyes,  and  pressed  a  hand  against  her  face.  She 
leaned  upon  the  table  for  support.  Had  the  in 
nermost  secret  of  her  soul  become  common  prop 
erty?  No,  she  could  not  believe  it.  But  she  re 
membered  Dr.  van  Home's  words :  and  these  other 
words,  now  from  Dr.  Wherry,  were  piercing  her 
brain. 

"Oh  yes !  A  love-sick  maid.  Just  pining  away. 
A  nice  trick  to  play  upon  your  friends!  You  cer 
tainly  deceived  us,  and  frightened  us — for  many 
months — and  with  perfect  success!" 

She  knew  that  Dr.  Wherry  was  laughing  at  her, 
but  this  laying  bare  the  sacred  privacy  of  her  heart 
came  with  a  shock.  Although  her  limbs  were  weak, 
her  pride  did  not  desert  her.  Still  leaning  upon 
the  table  she  raised  her  head.  "What  are  you  in 
venting,  Dockey?  What  crazy  idea  is  in  your  mis 
chief  making  head?" 

She  came  toward  him  to  lay  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders.  But  he  took  her  two  wrists  and  pushed 
her  gently  away,  with  a  warlike  frown.  "How 
many  kinds  of  a  fool  do  you  think  I  am?" 


Science  Demands  It  3°3 

"All  kinds." 

"You  are  mistaken.  Last  summer  when  we  were 
standing  before  the  ruins  of  the  fire  and  I  was  prais 
ing  this  man's  deed,  I  happened  to  look  up  into  your 
face.  And  you  looked  into  mine." 

"Yes.  I  have  often  done  that,  because  I  like 
your  face,  bad  as  it  is." 

"And  your  eyes  gave  you  away.  They  were 
brimming  over  with  pride,  as  if  you  owned  him. 
Your  whole  soul  was  in  them.  They  were  moist, 
and  tender,  and  glad.  Oh,  I  can  read !  I  have  seen 
women  in  love.  I  know  the  symptoms." 

"What  nonsense!  Outrageous,  disgusting  non 
sense!" 

"And  I  read  your  silly  secret  as  clearly  as  if  you 
had  shouted  it  from  the  housetops.  As  clearly  as  if 
you  had  waved  your  arms  and  screamed,  1  love  that 
American !' ' 

"Stop,  stop!  Oh,  how  can  you?  What  a  hateful 
malicious  old  man!"  And  she  pressed  both  hands 
against  her  burning  cheeks.  "And  you  told  every 
body  you  met,  of  course!" 

"No.  I  told  nobody.  I  kept  the  mortifying 
knowledge  to  myself." 

Octavia,  with  a  flushed,  appealing  face,  came  to 
ward  him  with  extended  arms.  Again  he  pushed 
away  the  hands.  "Don't  touch  me,  you  shameless 
woman !" 

"Oh,  Dockey !    How  can  you  !" 


304  Pandora's   Box 

"But  I  shall  keep  the  sickening  secret  no  longer. 
I  shall  tell  everything  to  Dr.  van  Home.  It  is  only 
right  that  he  should  know.  Besides,  science  de 
mands  it." 

"Oh!  You  wouldn't  really?" 

"Indeed  I  would!  It  is  no  more  than  my  duty. 
He  not  only  has  a  right  to  know  the  condition  of 
his  patients  but  it  is  absolutely  necessary,  to  be  of 
service  in  his  profession,  that  he  should  not  be  kept 
in  ignorance.  As  I  said  before,  science  demands 
it." 

Dr.  Wherry  was  not  prepared  for  Octavia's  re 
ception  of  this  speech.  In  silence  she  turned  away, 
dropped  into  a  chair,  leaned  forward  on  the  dining 
table,  and  wept.  He  hurried  to  her  side.  An  arm 
around  her  shoulders,  his  cheek  against  hers,  he 
exclaimed : 

"Don't  cry!  Oh,  don't  cry,  Octavia.  I  am  a 
brute.  I  forgot  that  you  are  ill  and  weak.  There, 
there !  Now  brace  up.  You  must  eat  something.  I 
take  it  all  back — everything,  everything." 

Still  she  wept.  "You  cannot.  It — it — is  too 
late." 

"It  is  never  too  late.  You  know  it  was  all  in 
joke.  And  after  all,  when  you  come  to  think  about 
it,  your  case  is  not  so  very  shocking.  I  once  knew 
an  excellent  woman  who  cared  for  a  man.  She 
even  married  him.  Besides — " 

He  straightened  up,  and  listened.    "What's  that? 


Science  Demands   It          305 


They  are  in  the  hall.    I  must  head  'em  off." 
he  started  for  the  door. 

Looking  back  into  two  tearful  eyes,  he  heard,  be 
tween  sobs  : 

"But  you  —  will  —  tell  them  everything." 

"I  shall  tell  them  nothing.     Not  a  word.     It's 
none  of  their  business." 

"But  —  but—  '  here  she  looked  up  and  tried  to 
smile  —  "science  —  demands  it" 

"Science  to  the  devil!" 

Then  the  door  closed  behind  him. 


XXVI 

THE   CRAZY   GENTLEMAN    GETS   WORSE 

WHEN  the  clock  in  the  laundry  struck  four 
Lucy  Lake  put  aside  a  linen  garment  she 
was  mending  and  slipped  on  her  water 
proof.  Her  mother  looked  up  from  her  ironing. 

"Where  are  your  going,  Lucy?" 

"Into  the  old  garden  to  see  if  the  strange  gentle 
man  fastened  the  gate  when  he  went  out." 

The  mother  nodded,  and  went  on  with  her  work. 

It  may  be  well  to  explain  that  one  of  Lucy's  attri 
butes  was  an  overwhelming — but  enjoyable — sense 
of  responsibility.  She  had  always  preferred  tend 
ing  a  baby  to  playing  with  other  girls.  Tending  two 
babies  gave  her  twice  as  much  pleasure  as  tending 
one  baby.  She  had  thoroughly  enjoyed,  almost 
from  infancy,  a  solemn  responsibility  for  all  that 
happened  in  her  neighborhood. 

A  drizzling  rain  was  still  falling  as  she  entered 
the  Garden  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty.  The  statue  of 
Cupid,  although  dripping  with  water,  bespoke  a  joy 
ful  dancer.  In  the  obscuring  mist  the  quaintly 
trimmed  shrubbery  stood  dimly  forth,  grey  and  wet. 
[As  she  was  passing  the  stone  seat,  she  stopped,  sud- 

306 


The  Crazy  Gentleman  Gets  Worse  307 

denly,  with  an  exclamation  of  surprise.  There  sat 
a  man;  silent,  motionless,  his  chin  in  his  hand.  At 
the  sound  of  her  voice  he  looked  up;  and  he  seemed 
as  surprised  as  herself. 

"Why,  sir,  you  still  here!" 

Smiling  faintly,  he  straightened  up  and  drew  a 
long  breath.  "I  believe  I  am." 

Lucy's  motherly  heart  was  touched  by  the  changes 
in  his  face.  He  appeared  many  years  older  than 
when  she  had  left  him  there,  six  hours  ago.  There 
was  weariness  in  the  eyes.  Lines  had  formed  be 
side  the  mouth. 

"But,  sir,  it  is  after  four  o'clock." 

"Really?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

Her  eyes  rested  on  his  leather  overcoat.  It  seemed 
very  wet,  and  it  looked,  in  places,  especially  about 
the  shoulders,  as  if  soaked  with  rain.  A  question 
which  might  appear  impertinent  and  inhospitable 
was  on  her  lips,  and  she  hesitated.  But  she  mustered 
courage.  "Have  you  been  here,  sir,  ever  since?" 

"I  think  so.     What  time  do  you  say  it  is?" 

"Four  o'clock." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows  and  puckered  his  lips,  but 
said  nothing.  Then  Lucy  Lake's  motherly  instincts, 
abetted  by  her  sense  of  responsibility,  all  came  into 
action. 

"You  must  be  hungry." 

He  arose  slowly  as  if  stiff  from  being  long  in 
one  position.  "Oh,  I  don't  know." 


Pandora's   Box 

"Have  you  eaten  nothing  since  morning?" 

"Why  no ;  so  I  haven't !  Nor  this  morning  either, 
come  to  think." 

"You  must  be  very  hungry,  sir/' 

He  looked  down  into  her  face  and  smiled,  the 
friendly  smile  that  dispelled  all  fear  of  him  as  a 
crazy  person.  "You  are  a  good  friend,  Lucy  Lake. 
Very  kind  and  thoughtful." 

Embarrassed,  she  took  a  backward  step.  "Oh  no, 
sir!  But  I  can  get  you  a  sandwich  or  something, 
and  a  cup  of  tea." 

"Thank  you.  You  are  very  good — and  I  appre 
ciate  it.  But  I — "  turning  partly  away,  and  in  a 
lower  tone — "I  don't  feel  like  eating." 

Again  the  motherly  heart  was  stirred  by  the  joy 
less,  despondent  face.  Her  little,  round  mouth  ex 
panded  slightly,  into  a  smile. 

"Would  you  feel  more  hungry,  sir,  if  you  heard 
good  news?" 

Quickly  he  turned,  and  his  eyes  looked  eagerly 
into  her  own.  "Is  there  good  news  ?" 

Lucy  nodded. 

"Of  Lady  Octavia?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  is  it?    Is  she  better?" 

"Yes,  sir.    She  is  very  much  better." 

"Good !  Good !  And  the  doctors  say  it  is  noth 
ing  serious?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Oh,  that  is  news  worth  hearing !" 


The  Crazy  Gentleman  Gets  Worse  309 

"Yes,  sir.  She  is  up  and  dressed,  and  this  fore 
noon  she  came  downstairs/' 

''Well,  that  is  good  news !"  And  he  laid  a  hand 
on  each  of  her  shoulders  and  gave  her  a  gentle 
shake. 

"Why,  Lucy,  that  is  the  best  news  in  the  world !" 
And  the  smile  that  lit  up  his  face  seemed  to  trans 
form  him  into  a  boy  again.  He  had  become,  in  an 
instant,  several  years  younger.  The  lines  of  care  and 
gloom  had  vanished.  A  more  joyful  face  she  had 
never  seen;  and  she  smiled — from  sympathy. 

"That  is  splendid!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  feel  like 
dancing.  You  may  kiss  me  for  a  quarter!" 

Lucy  frowned,  and  drew  back.  He  removed  the 
hands  from  her  shoulders  and  laughed.  "Well,  that 
was  only  a  suggestion.  I  could  think  of  no  better 
way  of  celebrating  the  event.  Do  you  know  what 
a  quarter  is?" 

"Yes,  sir;  a  fourth." 

"Of  what?" 

"Of  anything." 

"Gad,  so  it  is !  But  in  this  case  it's  money;  about 
a  shilling.  I  merely  had  in  mind  the  old  proverb, 
*A  kiss  in  time  is  the  best  policy.'  " 

Again  Lucy  frowned.    "I  never  heard  it  before." 

Raising  both  hands  to  his  forehead,  elbows  out, 
as  for  light  and  air,  he  pushed  back  his  cap,  and  it 
fell  to  earth.  But  his  thoughts  were  elsewhere 
and  he  observed  it  not.  With  face  upturned,  eyes 
closed  and  a  smile  on  his  lips,  he  seemed  to  be 


310  Pandora's   Box 

inhaling  happiness.  The  drizzling  rain  fell  gently  on 
him,  as  if  to  cool  a  fever.  Also,  it  seemed — to  him 
— like  felicitations  from  above. 

Then,  with  upturned  eyes  he  moved  his  arms,  like 
a  bird  about  to  fly.  This  performance,  evidently  an 
expression  of  excessive  joy,  did  not  surprise  Lucy 
Lake.  She  knew  it  was  the  nature  of  crazy  people 
to  do  unusual  things.  Besides,  his  happiness  was  a 
pleasant  thing  to  see.  He  was  behaving  like  a  boy 
of  ten.  With  eyes  still  upturned  he  exclaimed : 

"There  is  always  sunshine  behind  the  clouds,  isn't 
there?" 

"Yes,  sir.     Very  likely." 

"You  remember  the  old  proverb,  The  course  of 
true  love  has  a  silver  lining/  ' 

"That's  not  the  way  it  runs,  sir.  You  have  got 
two  proverbs  mixed." 

His  smiling  eyes  came  down  from  heaven  and 
gazed  into  her  serious  face. 

"Have  I?  Well,  there's  one  thing  we  are  sure  of,, 
and  that  is,  the  course  of  true  love  is  the  shortest 
way  home." 
"Oh  no,  sir !" 

"Then  it's  the  longest  way  round — which  I  re 
fuse  to  believe." 

Still  Lucy  frowned,  not  in  anger,  but  in  a  mental 
effort  to  rectify  an  error.  "I  am  not  contradicting 
you,  sir,  but  you  get  the  proverbs  jumbled." 

"Well,  even  if  I  do,  the  fact  remains  that  the 
course  of  true  love  is  the  biggest  and  most  import- 


The  Crazy  Gentleman  Gets  Worse  31 1 

ant  thing  in  creation.  It  is  bigger  than  astronomy. 
Isn't  it?" 

This  was  so  clearly  the  working  of  a  disordered 
brain  that  Lucy  remained  silent.  She  knew  that  in 
sane  persons  were  sometimes  violent  when  opposed. 
This  gentleman,  however,  had  thus  far  shown  no 
signs  of  anger. 

"Were  you  ever  in  love?"  he  asked. 

Lucy  blushed.     "Not  to  speak  of,  sir." 

"Not  to  speak  of!  Good  heavens!  Why,  earth 
quakes  are  nothing  Jo  it!  It's  a  conflagration  and 
a  stormy  sea,  all  in  one.  You  are  like  a  cork  on 
a  raging  ocean.  Incidentally  it  lifts  you  up  to 
heaven  then  flings  you  down  again,  deeper  than  a 
million  fathoms.  And  does  it  several  times  a  day. 
That,  roughly  speaking,  is  the  course  of  true  love." 

Lucy  smiled.     "I  don't  think  I  should  like  it." 

"Oh,  yes  you  would !  Everybody  likes  it.  After 
once  tasting,  life  is  dull  without  it.  But  I  must  be 
off.  Now  that  I  am  alive  again  I  do  feel  empty. 
So  I'll  trot  away  to  the  inn.  How  can  I  show  my 
gratitude  for  all  you  have  done  for  me  ?" 

"I  have  done  nothing,  sir." 

"On  the  contrary,  you  have  brought  me  the  best 
news  I  ever  heard  in  my  life.  Suppose  some  old 
aunt  were  to  make  you  a  present,  what  would  you 
choose  ?" 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  say,  sir." 

"Have  you  a  watch?" 

"No,  sir." 


Pandora's   Box 

"Have  you  a  middle  name?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Just  Lucy  Laker 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  good  bye,  Lucy  Lake.  And  we  shall  meet 
hereafter,  either  many  times  or  not  at  all." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that,  sir?" 

"Oh,  it's  the  way  of  the  world.    Good  bye." 

And  they  shook  hands.  Then  he  bowed,  as  re 
spectfully  as  if  she  were  the  lady  of  the  castle, 
turned  and  walked  away — bareheaded,  without  his 
cap. 

But  no  act  of  this  poor  gentleman,  however  ec 
centric,  would  have  surprised  Lucy  Lake.  She 
called  after  him,  picked  up  the  cap  and  presented  it. 
He  thanked  her,  adding  with  a  smile,  "This  is  a 
momentous  day,  and  rather  upsetting.  I  am  not 
always  quite  so  giddy."  Which  seemed,  to  the 
maiden,  an  acknowledgment  that  he  realized  his  af 
fliction. 

Then  he  left  the  old  garden  as  he  had  entered  it, 
by  the  little  door  toward  the  river. 

From  Drumworth  Castle  the  crazy  gentleman 
went  straight  to  the  shop  of  the  village  jeweler.  It 
was  a  small  shop,  and  its  choice  of  watches  not  con 
fusing.  But  he  selected  the  best  of  them  all — a 
little  watch  of  good  design,  pronounced  by  Mr. 
James  Thorp,  the  proprietor,  "a  most  genteel  gift 
for  any  lady,  the  works  guaranteed."  The  giver 


The  Crazy  Gentleman  Gets  Worse  3*3 

paid  for  it — £7  ics. — and  wrote  out  carefully  the 
inscription  to  be  engraved  inside  the  case  : 


To 

LUCY  LAKE 

From  her  Grateful 

Friend 

E.  L. 


XXVII 

SENTENCE   OF   DEATH 

DURING  the  night  the  rain  ceased.     Then, 
between  masses  of  scudding  mist,  the  moon 
appeared.    Later  on,  from  a  radiant  sky — 
deep  blue  with  great  white    clouds — the  sun  pro 
claimed  a  perfect  day. 

In  the  afternoon  an  equipage,  also  perfect,  stood 
glistening  before  a  door  of  Drumworth  Castle.  The 
Lady  Georgiana  came  forth.  About  to  enter  the 
carriage  her  glance  fell  upon  a  nearby  object.  She 
frowned.  Still  frowning  she  addressed  the  foot 
man  who  stood  beside  her. 

"Miles,  there  is  that  awful  dog  again." 

Miles  also  looked  at  the  dog,  who  stood  just  be 
hind  the  carriage.  Baseborn  acknowledged  the  at 
tention  of  these  two  imposing  people  by  a  cocking 
of  the  ears  and  a  rapid,  horizontal,  friendly  move 
ment  of  his  tail.  He  seemed  to  have  no  suspicion  of 
his  shocking  contrast  with  the  equipage,  which  was 
thoroughly  patrician. 

'1  have  told  you  once  before,"  said  the  lady,  "to 
see  that  this  did  not  occur  again.  We  cannot  have 
such  a  creature  on  the  premises." 

314 


Sentence  of  Death  315 

"I  am  very  sorry,  your  ladyship.  I  did  not  know 
he  was  here." 

Lady  Georgiana  transferred  her  frown  upward 
to  the  coachman  on  the  box. 

"Send  that  dog  off,  Basset,  and  see  that  he  does 
not  return.  Give  him  away." 

Basset  turned  his  face  toward  Lady  Georgiana 
so  far  as  his  stiff  collar  would  permit.  "We  can't 
give  him  away,  your  ladyship.  Nobody  wants  him." 

"Have  you  tried?" 

"All  through  the  village." 

"Then  take  him  far  away  and  leave  him  some 
where." 

"We  have  already  tried  that,  your  ladyship." 

"And  he  still  returns?" 

"He  gets  home  first." 

Lady  Georgiana's  frown  deepened.  It  seemed 
to  include  her  nose  and  mouth.  Was  she  to  be 
triumphantly  circumvented  by  a  thing  like  this  pres 
ent  cur?  Again  her  glance  rested  on  Baseborn. 
For  a  moment  they  studied  each  other.  In  the  cold 
eyes  of  the  lady  were  contempt  and  hostility.  In 
Baseborn's  admiration  and  cordiality.  The  dog's 
eyes  and  tail  told  clearly  his  desire  for  a  better  un 
derstanding  between  the  lady  and  himself.  But  the 
lady  went  no  further  than  externals.  And  in  the 
matter  of  externals  Baseborn  was  a  blunder.  For 
a  brief  moment  Lady  Georgiana  gazed  upon  his 
rugged  outlines  and  dingy  coloring.  Unless  ap 
pearances  were  incredibly  mendacious  he  was  a  poor 


316  Pandora's    Box 

specimen  of  his  kind ;  and  the  kind  was  cheap.  From 
the  tip  of  his  nose  to  the  end  of  his  gnarled  ex 
tremity  there  was  not  a  suggestion  of  gentle  birth. 
He  was  surprisingly  plebeian. 

In  a  tone  of  unspeakable  contempt — and  of  loath 
ing — the  lady  inquired,  "What  sort  of  dog  is  he, 
Basset?" 

For  a  moment  Basset  hesitated.  "I  should  say, 
your  ladyship,  that  his  father  was  a  bulldog  and 
his  mother  was  miscellaneous." 

"If  he  were  a  man,"  said  the  lady,  "he  would  be 
in  jail.    You  say  it  is  impossible  to  get  rid  of  him?" 
"Yes,  your  ladyship." 

"Then  have  him  put  out  of  the  way.     Kindly,  of 
course,  with  chloroform.    You  understand?" 
"Yes,  your  ladyship." 

"Now  let  there  be  no  mistake  about  it.  See  that 
it  is  done  tonight." 

"Yes,  your  ladyship.  I  will  attend  to  it." 
Had  Baseborn  understood  these  fateful  words  he 
might  have  protested.  He  might  have  argued  that 
for  the  sin  of  plainness  death  was  too  severe  a  pun 
ishment.  As  it  was,  his  honest,  inquiring  eyes  re 
mained  fixed  on  the  lady's  face,  doubting,  yet  hop 
ing  for  the  best.  But  she  merely  said,  still  frown 
ing: 

"Take  the  whip,  Miles,  and  drive  him  off." 
This  was  done ;  and  Baseborn,  depressed  but  not 
surprised,  retreated  toward  the  stables. 

At  that  instant  a  voice  came  from  the  hall. 


Sentence   of  Death  317 

"Oh,  Auntie  George!  It  is  such  a  lovely  after 
noon  I  think  I  will  go  too,  just  for  the  drive." 

"Do  come,  Octavia.    The  air  will  do  you  good." 

"They  can  bring  me  back,  then  return  again  for 
you." 

This  plan  being  approved  the  victoria  with  the 
two  ladies  was  soon  rolling  beneath  the  overhanging 
trees,  along  the  straight,  wide  avenue  of  Drum- 
worth  park. 

About  two  miles  from  home  Auntie  George  sud 
denly  straightened  up. 

"Basset!     Stop!" 

Octavia  was  alarmed.  "What's  the  matter, 
Auntie  George?  Are  you  ill?" 

"No.     It's  that  awful  dog!" 

And  lo!  Beside  the  carriage  stood  Baseborn, 
looking  joyfully  up,  breathing  hard,  his  tongue  out, 
his  tail  wagging.  Were  it  possible  to  appear  more 
vulgar  and  disreputable  than  usual,  he  was  doing  it 
now.  Covered  with  dust  from  running  close  behind 
the  vehicle  he  certainly  appeared — compared  with 
the  glistening  equipage — a  disgraceful  thing.  When 
ordered  back  he  merely  stood  and  gazed  up  into 
Octavia's  face  with  a  look  of  unquenchable  admira 
tion.  A  sharp  word  from  Basset  and  a  yet  sharper 
cut  from  the  whip,  aimed  at  random,  across  the  up 
turned  head,  brought  a  cry  of  protest  from  Octavia. 
And  when  she  looked  back,  at  a  turning  of  the  road 
nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  beyond,  she  saw  Baseborn 
still  standing  where  they  had  left  him. 


3i8  Pandora's  Box 

Auntie  George  frowned.     "Is  he  following?'* 

"No,"  Octavia  answered.  "But  it  was  a  shame  to 
strike  him.  Never  do  that  again,  Basset/' 

In  the  apologetic  acknowledgment  of  this  com 
mand  by  Basset,  and  in  the  silence  of  Auntie  George, 
was  hidden  a  somber  secret  unsuspected  by  Oc 
tavia.  They  had  good  reason  to  believe  that  before 
the  rising  of  another  sun  that  dog  would  be  far  be 
yond  the  pain  of  earthly  w.hips. 

After  depositing  Auntie  George  for  her  bridge 
party — not  three  miles  from  the  castle — Octavia 
started  homeward.  At  a  turning  of  the  road,  where 
the  tall  trees  of  Drumworth  forest  lined  the  high 
way  on  either  side,  she  stopped  the  carriage,  and 
alighted. 

"I  think  I  will  walk  home,  Basset,  through  the 
woods." 

"Don't  do  it,  your  ladyship!"  Basset  was  sixty 
years  old  and  had  been  in  the  family  all  his  life. 

"Why  not?" 

"You  are  not  strong  enough  yet.  And  it  is  near 
ly  a  mile  by  that  path." 

Octavia  smiled,  and  shook  her  head.  "I  am 
stronger  than  you  think.  And  that  path  and  I  are 
old  friends." 

Basset  still  protested.  "Then,  Miles,  you  follow 
her  ladyship." 

"No,  no!  I  prefer  to  be  alone."  And  climbing 
three  rough  stone  steps  she  passed  through  a  narrow 
opening  in  the  wall,  and  disappeared.  Miles  clam- 


Sentence  of  Death  319 

bered  to  his  seat  and  the  carriage  returned  for 
Auntie  George. 

Two  years  had  gone  by  since  Octavia  had  used 
this  path.  Now,  once  again  in  the  silent  wood  she 
drew  a  deep  breath  of  that  many-scented,  myste 
rious,  sunless  atmosphere  which  recalls,  more  than 
all  else,  the  fairy  land  of  our  childhood.  For  this 
air  of  the  woods  is  the  air  once  breathed  by  gnomes 
and  elfs  and  sprites  and  witches,  by  enchanted  ani 
mals,  by  dwarfs  and  giants,  by  knights  and  fairy 
princes.  As  she  inhaled  this  air  and  penetrated 
farther  into  the  shadowy  depths  she  seemed  to  have 
left  the  world  behind,  the  everyday  world  of  ordi 
nary  people,  and  was  entering,  once  again,  a  world 
of  her  childhood;  a  world  where  nothing  was  im 
possible.  The  silence,  to  be  sure,  the  breathless, 
solemn,  living  silence — as  of  a  host  of  invisible 
creatures — broken  only  by  a  falling  twig  or  the 
sound  of  an  overhead  woodpecker,  was  mildly  ter 
rifying.  Could  Octavia  have  seen  herself  as  she  ap 
peared  to  the  denizens  of  this  wood — notably  cer 
tain  birds  and  squirrels — she  would  have  under 
stood  their  astonishment  and  why  they  gave  her  so 
wide  a  berth.  With  her  white  dress  and  crimson 
sunshade  she  was  a  startling  object  in  the  surround 
ing  gloom. 

The  narrow,  winding  path  was  a  little  rougher 
than  formerly,  as  if  less  traveled.  Two  squirrels 
in  the  heat  of  a  family  quarrel  caused  her  to  stop 
for  a  moment,  and  look  up.  As  she  started  forward, 


Pandora's  Box 

still  looking  up,  she  tripped  against  a  root,  and  near 
ly  fell.  Being  still  a  convalescent,  and  weaker  than 
she  realized,  this  trifling  accident  with  its  mild  shock, 
created  a  vague  uneasiness,  intensified  perhaps  by 
the  silence  and  the  solitude.  Her  uneasiness  was 
increased  by  the  sight  of  a  huge  boulder  around 
which  the  path  made  a  sudden  turn.  For  this  boul 
der,  she  remembered,  was  only  half-way  through 
the  wood.  She  knew,  now,  that  she  had  overesti 
mated  her  strength.  As  she  turned  the  corner  made 
by  the  angle  of  the  great  rock  she  stopped  short 
with  a  smothered  cry.  In  the  path,  and  almost 
touching  her,  stood  a  figure  that  drove  the  color 
from  her  cheeks.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  professional 
tramp  of  the  most  offensive  type.  His  besotted 
eyes,  unshaven  chin,  and  the  filthy  discolored  gar 
ments  that  hung  upon  his  limbs  were  all  repugnant. 
As  she  shrunk  back,  a  hand  against  her  cheek,  and 
loathing  in  her  face,  the  man  smiled.  He  lifted 
from  his  head  a  filthy  rag  that  was  once  a  cap,  and 
made  the  mockery  of  a  bow. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid  of  me,  miss.  I'm  a  great 
friend  of  the  ladies." 

From  his  voice  and  manner  she  knew  he  had  been 
drinking.  Gazing  upon  her  with  a  smile  of  ad 
miration  he  continued,  "You  are  the  prettiest  of  'em 
all — the  whole  lot — and  I'm  just  givin'  it  to  yer 
straight." 

With  as  much  seventy  as  fright  permitted,  but  in 
a  trembling  voice,  she  said,  "Please  let  me  pass." 


Sentence  of  Death 

He  smiled,  in  enjoyment  of  her  terror.  "No,  you 
ain't  in  any  hurry.  There's  nobody  with  yer,  or 
you  wouldn't  be  so  scared.  And  there  ain't  anybody 
the  way  I  come.  So  we  needn't  hurry.  See?" 

Her  knees  threatened  to  give  way  beneath  her. 
She  stepped — or  rather  tottered — backward,  and 
leaned  against  the  rock.  "Please  let  me  go  on,  sir; 
I'm — I'm  in  a  hurry." 

"No,  you  ain't  in  any  hurry  whatever.  But  I'll 
tell  yer  what  I'll  do.  You  give  me  one  kiss — just 
one  nice  little  kiss — and  then  we'll  talk  it  over. 
Come  now,  that's  fair." 

He  came  a  step  nearer.  Octavia,  growing  weaker 
with  every  second,  moved  backward,  still  resting  a 
hand  against  the  rock.  Without  support  she  felt 
she  might  fall. 

He  enjoyed  her  agony. 

"Say  now,"  and  his  voice  was  lowered  to  a  still 
huskier  tone,  "good  friends  like  to  be  alone.  We'll 
just  step  aside  to  a  more  secluded  spot,  hey  ?" 

On  the  verge  of  collapse,  she  tried  to  cry  for  help, 
but  even  her  voice  had  forsaken  her.  Her  cry  was 
hardly  more  than  a  whisper.  As  he  came  closer  yet, 
and  laid  hold  on  both  her  shoulders,  she  threw  up 
her  hands  between  her  face  and  his,  and  made  a  des 
perate  effort  to  wrench  herself  from  the  polluting 
touch.  As  well  might  a  doe  struggle  in  the  claws  of 
a  hungry  lion.  Close  to  her  face  came  the  loose- 
lipped,  unclean  mouth,  and  the  gloating  eyes.  Faint 
.and  dizzy,  exhausted  by  the  violent  effort,  her  head 


322  Pandora's   Box 

was  beginning  to  swim  in  a  hideous,  unutterable 
despair,  when,  from  the  foul,  hot  lips  came  a  cry 
of  rage — and  of  pain.  With  a  curse,  and  a  spas 
modic  jerk  of  his  whole  body,  that  nearly  threw  Oc- 
tavia  to  the  ground,  he  released  his  hold  and  wheeled 
about.  She  saw  him  aiming  blows  at  some  object 
behind  him.  That  object  was  a  dog.  And  his  teeth 
were  locked  with  an  iron  grip  in  one  of  the  ankles 
of  the  man.  Octavia  rallied  with  a  sudden  strength, 
of  joy  and  hope — when  she  recognized  Baseborn. 
As  the  man  wheeled  about,  in  helpless  fury,  the 
eyes  of  Baseborn  and  Octavia  met.  And  Baseborn's 
eyes,  in  an  upturned,  sidelong  glance,  said  clearly 
as  in  spoken  words, 

"Run!    Quick!" 

And  Octavia  ran. 


XXVII 

UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD  TREE 

TOWARD  the  castle  she  ran. 
And  she  ran  as  only  those  can  run  with 
death — or  worse — behind. 

To  her  it  seemed  an  hour,  this  flight — and  a 
measureless  distance.  In  reality  it  was  less  than 
half  a  mile.  As  she  neared  the  edge  of  the  wood, 
catching  glimpses  between  the  trees  of  the  distant, 
sunlit  castle,  she  saw  a  man  in  grey  clothes — not  a 
tramp — leaning  against  an  ancient  oak.  His  back 
was  toward  her.  In  terror  of  things  behind — per 
haps  close  behind— she  called,  involuntarily,  for 
help.  Quickly  he  wheeled  about,  then  with  a  cry  of 
joy  came  forward  to  the  running  figure.  And  the 
running  figure,  exhausted,  hysterical,  but  safe ! — 
fluttered  into  his  arms.  The  arms  closed  around  her. 
Between  his  exclamations  of  surprise  he  kissed  her, 
on  mouth,  cheeks,  forehead— anywhere.  Then,  at 
arms'  length  he  supported  the  panting,  blushing, 
feebly  protesting,  almost  fainting  girl,  and  drank  in 
— as  a  thirsty  lover — the  burning  cheeks,  the  tum 
bling  hair,  the  moist  eyes,  the  quivering  lips. 

Her  hat  was  dangling  behind  her  head;  a  lock  of 
323 


324  Pandora's   Box 

the  gold-brown  hair  had  fallen  across  her  cheek. 
The  evading  eyes,  the  face  of  changing  color,  all 
told  for  him  a  thrilling  tale  of  wild  emotions — an 
entrancing  betrayal  of  surprise,  joy,  shame;  and 
then — a  sudden  resentment.  She  frowned,  and  with 
protesting  hands  against  his  chest  tried  to  push  her 
self  away. 

"You  don't  think  I — I  ran  into  your  arms  be 
cause — because — 

"Because  you  love  me?  Yes,  indeed  I  do!  Why 
not,  when  you  are  mine,  mine,  and  you  know  I  love 
you  more  than — " 

"No!    No!    I  did  not— " 

"Yes,  yes !    I  listen  to  nothing  but  yes !" 

But  still  smiling  from  a  happiness  too  perfect  for 
doubts  or  fears,  he  released  her;  and  she,  retreating 
a  step  or  two,  stood  with  her  back  against  a  tree, 
breathing  hard,  and  ready  to  sink  from  exhaus 
tion. 

"I  was  running  from  that  man — that  thing — " 
she  shuddered,  and  closed  her  eyes — "who  held  me 
back  there — and — and  tried  to — kiss  me." 

"Held  you !    And  tried  to  kiss  you !" 

In  a  broken  voice,  barely  audible,  a  quivering 
hand  before  her  eyes,  she  murmured,  "Oh,  I  must 
try — not — think  of  it!" 

Then  she  was  startled  by  a  sudden  change  in  his 
voice.  In  a  rougher  tone  he  demanded, 

"Where?    When?    Just  now?" 

Uncovering  her  eyes  she  looked  into  a  face  whose 


Under  the  Greenwood  Tree    325 

expression  was  completely  transformed.  The  fa 
miliar  grey  eyes,  now  harder  and  with  no  trace  of 
mirth,  were  frowning  into  her  own.  The  joyous 
smile  of  a  moment  ago  was  supplanted  by  a  tighten 
ing  of  the  lips. 

She  nodded.  "Back  there.  Baseborn  is — holding 
him." 

Ethan  Love  joy  said  nothing,  but  he  turned  away. 
In  three  long  strides  he  reached  a  pile  of  staves. 
They  were  a  little  thicker  than  hoe  handles,  and  were 
intended  for  a  wire  fence.  Calmly,  but  with  no  loss 
of  time,  he  selected  one. 

Again  the  color  left  Octavia's  cheeks.  "What 
are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Find  him." 

"No,  no!  Listen.  Don't  go  there.  He  is — a— 
a  desperate  character;  and  very  strong." 

Ethan  smiled.    "Is  he?    So  am  I." 

He  added,  and  it  was  more  a  command  than  a  re 
quest:  "Sit  down.  I  will  be  back  in  a  minute." 

Then  he  hurried  away.  Running  with  an  easy, 
rapid  gait  along  the  fateful  path  he  disappeared 
among  the  trees. 

Judging  time  by  Octavia's  hopes  and  fears  he  was 
absent  many  hours.  At  last — thirty  minutes  per 
haps — her  straining  eyes  caught  glimpses,  between 
tree  trunks,  of  an  approaching  spot  of  crimson.  Her 
forgotten  sunshade !  Next  appeared  Baseborn ; 
then  the  man.  In  Baseborn's  varied  career  he  had 
never  received  so  warm  a  welcome.  She  stroked 


Pandora's  Box 

him,  and  caressed  him.  Holding  his  face  with  both 
hands  she  tried  to  express  her  gratitude.  Words 
failed,  but  Baseborn  understood.  So  great  was  his 
joy  that  Ethan,  who  had  thrown  himself  full  length 
upon  the  ground  beside  them,  remarked,  "With  one 
exception  he  is  the  happiest  dog  in  England."  Then 
he  took  the  hand  that  was  nearest  and  touched  it 
with  his  lips.  Octavia  looked  down  into  the  fa 
miliar  grey  eyes,  that  again  were  smiling.  Again 
they  were  gentle,  with  lines  of  mirth — and  more 
than  friendly! 

"What  did  you  do  to  that  man  ?" 

"Oh,  not  much,  considering.  I  found  Baseborn 
standing  guard  over  him." 

Again  Octavia  patted  the  silent  hero.  "Dear 
Baseborn,  I  used  to  think  you  ugly.  Now  you  are 
more  than  beautiful.  Nothing  shall  ever  part  us. 
But  tell  me,  what  happened  ?" 

"Our  interview  was  short.  He  is  now  mov 
ing  toward  the  village,  on  his  way  to  the  hos 
pital." 

"Well,  go  on." 

"When  I  discovered  him  he  was  trying  to  bandage 
an  ankle  that  Baseborn  had  crippled.  I  mentioned, 
in  few  words,  the  business  that  brought  me  to  him. 
He  protested  innocence,  ignorance,  all  the  good 
things.  Then  he  picked  up  his  own  stick  with  one 
hand,  and  waved  a  vicious  looking  knife  with  the 
other;  a  knife  with  which  he  had  been  trying  to  get 
at  Baseborn.  But  Baseborn  is  a  wise  fighter  and  he 


Under  the  Greenwood  Tree    327 

outgeneraled  him.    Having  weakened  the  enemy  he 
used  Fabian  tactics." 

Octavia,  a  hand  on  Baseborn's  head,  looked  down 
into  his  eyes  and  murmured  words  that  any  cham 
pion,  dog  or  human,  would  love  to  hear. 

"Then  the  human  brute  and  your  humble  servant 
came  down  to  business.  It  really  was  not  a  fight — 
merely  punishment.  He  was  slow,  and  scared.  When 
the  thing  was  over  and  he  lay  on  the  ground  I  real 
ized  that  one  of  his  arms  was  broken,  among  other 
troubles,  and  I  told  him  how  to  find  the  hospital. 
So  there  you  have  all  the  details.  This  evening  I 
will  see  Dr.  Wherry  about  him.  Dr.  Wherry  will 
tell  the  town  officers  and  it  will  be  a  long  time  before 
he  insults  another  woman." 

Lazily  across  the  far-reaching  lawn  of  Drum- 
worth  Castle  came  the  south  wind.  Lazily  it  en 
tered  the  wood.  Lazily  and  gently  it  touched  the 
faces  of  these  contented  persons.  Three  creatures 
more  contented  never  sat  beneath  a  tree.  Being  a 
dog,  and  denied — unjustly  we  believe — the  gift  of 
speech,  Baseborn's  unutterable  contentment  was 
freely  expressed  by  his  eyes,  tail,  and  general  de 
meanor.  Pressing  close  to  Octavia  he  received  fre 
quent  tokens  of  the  warmest  appreciation.  And  he 
displayed,  after  a  time,  that  jealousy  characteristic  of 
dogs  by  resenting,  amiably,  the  more  than  friendly 
understanding  which  had  suddenly  developed  be 
tween  his  benefactor  and  this  adorable  lady.  He 
forcibly  inserted  himself  between  Octavia,  who  was 


328  Pandora's   Box 

sitting  with  her  back  against  the  old  oak,  and  Ethan 
Love  joy  reclining  beside  her.  While  these  earnest 
efforts  caused  a  certain  merriment,  he  was  treated, 
nevertheless,  with  the  honor,  the  gratitude  and  the 
gentle  consideration  that  belonged  to  the  hero  of  the 
day.  The  lady  was  amused.  But  the  man  glowered 
upon  the  hero.  "Look  here,  you  Perseus  Chevalier 
Bayard  Horatius  Launcelot  Baseborn,  aren't  you 
presuming  on  your  laurels?  I,  too,  am  this  lady's 
property." 

"Yes,  but  your  position  is  secondary.  He  shall 
always  be  first  in  my  affections." 

"Well,  did  you  ever!  And  it  was  I  who  offered 
him  to  you,  and  you,  in  your  soulless  pride,  sneered 
at  the  offer." 

"But  all  that  was  a  year  ago.  I  have  outgrown 
certain  kinds  of  pride,  thanks  to  you  and  him.  I 
have  learned  within  an  hour  that  base  born  things 
are  not  to  be  despised.  Are  they,  angel  Baseborn?" 

Being  a  modest  dog  this  savior  of  maidens  made 
no  reply,  other  than  a  gentle  movement  of  the  plebe 
ian  tail. 

"I  am  ashamed  to  confess  that  once  I  thought 
otherwise.  But  I  have  reformed :  and  oh,  so  thor 
oughly!  And  to  think  that  I  began  by  despising 
Baseborn  because  appearances  were  against  him!" 

"We  bear  no  malice  for  that  early  contempt.  Our 
love  for  the  lady  of  our  choice  is  dependable  and  un 
dying." 

Baseborn's  eyes  moved  solemnly  from  the  speaker 


Under  the  Greenwood  Tree    329 

to  the  lady's  face,  and  he  made  it  clear  by  look  and 
caudal  agitation  that  these  sentiments  were  his  own. 

"Thanks,"  said  Octavia.  "You  are  an  honest 
couple.  But  how  you  do  stare  at  me,  you  two !  It's 
dreadfully  embarrassing.  You  behaved  better  in 
the  Old  Hall.  You  dared  not  be  so  rude." 

"Stare  at  you !  Why,  I  am  drinking  you  in  as  a 
thirsty  soul  drinks  life  and  light.  Why  shouldn't  I  ?" 

With  the  handle  of  her  parasol  against  his  cheek 
she  tried  to  turn  his  head  away.  "You  drink  too 
much." 

"But  such  a  happy  drunkard!  May  I  never  be 
sober!" 

"A  drunkard!"  she  exclaimed.  "That  would, 
indeed,  be  too  much!  For  Americans,  I  am  told, 
are  already  thieves  and  liars." 

"But  good  husbands.    The  best  in  the  world." 

"So  I  hear.     Is  it  really  true?" 

"Try  one." 

Octavia  laughed.     "Very  well;  since  you  ask  it." 

Then  followed  other  business:  explanations,  con 
fidences  and  confessions.  He  confessed  that  after 
his  intoxication  over  the  photograph  his  love  had 
suddenly  turned  to  loathing  when  she  snubbed  him, 
that  first  day,  in  the  ferryboat.  Moreover,  he  tried 
to  forget  her  as  something  far  beyond  his  reach. 
He  also  confessed  to  a  year  of  misery.  His  mother, 
after  her  interview  with  Octavia,  had  gone  to  Italy 
and  he,  without  meeting  her,  had  been  called  to 
America.  And  so  Octavia's  message,  in  a  wander- 


330  Pandora's   Box 

ing  letter,  had  never  reached  him  until  he  saw  his 
mother  four  days  ago.  "And  during  all  those 
months,"  he  said,  "I  made  a  gallant  effort  to  forget 
and  despise  you." 

"No,  no,  darling  boy !    Please  don't  say  that." 

"But  I  did !  And  so  deep  was  my  hate,  so  bitter 
my  contempt,  that  on  getting  from  Mumsey  even 
that  frigid  little  message  I  started  off  at  once  and 
traveled  day  and  night  to  get  here." 

Octavia  laughed. 

And  Baseborn,  in  obvious  approval,  wagged  his 
tail. 

Octavia's  smile,  however,  was  followed  by  a 
frown.  She  began  to  readjust  her  tumbling  hair, 
much  disordered  by  her  flight  through  the  woods.  "I 
am  ashamed,  humiliated,  when  I  think  of  the  morti 
fying  way  I  ran  into  your  arms." 

"Mortifying!     It  was  heavenly." 

"No!  It  was  horrible!  And  how  differently  I 
had  planned  our  meeting !" 

"Never  was  earthly  meeting  happier !  Let's  do  it 
again !" 

When  she  frowned  and  shook  her  head  he  asked, 
"But  how  had  you  planned  it?" 

"In  a  dignified  and  proper  way,  of  course." 

"Disgusting  idea!"  he  exclaimed.  "Cold-blooded 
and  commonplace." 

"I  intended  to  reach  home  about  half  an  hour 
before  you  called.  That  would  give  me  time  to  prink 
a  little.  When  you  were  announced  I  should  let  you 


Under  the  Greenwood  Tree    33  * 

wait  a  few  minutes — not  too  long,  but  just  long 
enough  for  you  to  realize  that  your  visit  was  of  no 
special  importance;  no  more  remarkable  than  any 
other  visit." 

"What  a  mean  woman !" 

"I  should,  of  course,  express  regret  for  the  in 
justice  I  did  you  regarding  the  note  in  Pandora's 
box.  But  I  should  have  done  it  discreetly;  in  a 
friendly  way  but  not — not  too  encouraging." 

Ethan  closed  his  eyes.  "It  makes  me  cold  and 
weak  to  think  of  it." 

"And  you  would  have  gone  away  in  doubt." 

He  groaned,  and  rolled  over  on  his  back.  "What 
fiendish  cruelty !" 

"And  whether  you  returned  or  not  would  depend 
entirely  on  your  own  courage  and  perseverance." 

"An  all  wise  Providence  and  the  god  of  love  were 
both  against  you."  And  he  moved  from  his  reclining 
position  and  sat  beside  her,  both  resting  against  the 
tree. 

Time  flies  quickly  in  the  month  of  June  when  you 
are  sitting  under  the  greenwood  tree  beside  the  only 
woman  in  the  world.  An  hour  later,  when  shadows 
from  the  wood  reached  far  across  the  lawn,  even  to 
the  castle  walls,  still  were  they  sitting, 
One  soul  abiding  in  two  bodies. 

But  all  things  end — except  time  and  space — and 
so,  after  enjoyment  all  too  brief  of  this  celestial 
intimacy,  they  returned  to  earth.  The  reluctant 


332  Pandora's   Box 

American  climbed  slowly  to  his  feet,  then  helped  the 
lady. 

As  she  stood  before  him — a  radiant  figure  against 
the  somber  depths  of  the  forest — replacing  her 
hat  and  struggling  with  loose  locks  of  the  gold 
brown  hair,  he  stared  in  boyish  rapture:  and  he 
proclaimed  her  the  daintiest  and  most  patrician, 
the  most  piquante,  entrancing,  delectable,  the  most 
bewildering  and  soul  stirring  of  all  created  things. 
This  statement  she  received  with  outward  scorn, 
but  with  changing  color  in  her  cheeks.  He  insisted 
on  its  truth.  And  his  admiration  was  so  sincere,  so 
enthusiastic,  that  Octavia  became  embarrassed. 

"It  is  so  true,"  he  said,  "so  very  true  that  it 
frightens  me." 

She  laughed.     "What  frightens  you?     Is  it  I?" 

"Yes,  you.    I  am  afraid  it  is  all  a  dream." 

In  reply  to  an  inquiring  look  he  pointed  to  the 
castle  whose  taller  towers  were  touched  by  a  rosy 
light.  The  high,  far  reaching  walls,  the  ivy  clad 
battlements,  the  terraces  and  Elizabethan  gables,  all 
stood  forth  in  shadowy,  mysterious  grandeur — a 
castle  in  fairyland. 

"It  is  hard  to  believe  that  you  should  be  willing 
to  exchange  such  a  home  for — for  me." 

"For  you!  Why,  darling  boy,  for  you  I  would 
leave  the  world  behind!  But  tell  me,  in  America 
shall  we  live  in  one  of  those  little  houses  I  have  read 
about,  made  of  wood  and  painted  white?" 

"Only  the  richest  Americans  live  in  those  houses. 


Under  the  Greenwood  Tree    333 

Ours  will  be  a  log  cabin,  with  Indians  shooting 
arrows  at  us  through  the  chinks." 

"However  rough  the  cabin  or  wide  the  chinks  or 
many  the  arrows,  I  shall  be  contented." 

Still  looking  into  each  other's  eyes,  he  laid  his 
hands  behind  her  shoulders  and  drew  her— 

But  why  describe  it?  Why  describe  a  custom 
more  ancient  than  prehistoric  man? 

So  near  together  were  they  standing,  so  very 
near,  that  Baseborn  found  difficulty  in  wedging  him 
self  between.  He  succeeded,  however,  and  stood 
slapping  his  tail  against  the  lady's  skirts.  A  moment 
later,  as  Octavia  again  adjusted  a  fugitive  lock,  she 
looked  down  at  Baseborn.  "I  go  to  America  on  one 
condition." 

"Already  granted,  O  Earth's  Delight !  And  any 
others  that  you  care  to  mention.  What  is  this  par 
ticular  one?" 

"That  Baseborn  go  with  us." 

"Of  course !  And  more  than  that :  he  shall  be 
best  man  at  the  wedding." 

Octavia  smiled.  But  the  smile  died  quickly  away 
and  her  eyes  rested  sadly  on  the  castle.  "That  wed 
ding!  I  tremble  for  it." 

"Oh,  don't  say  my  dream  is  ended — that  you  are 
repenting  already !" 

"No,  I  shall  never  do  that !  But  you  don't  know 
my  grandfather." 

Uncertain  as  to  how  much  Mrs.  Love  joy  had  told 
her  son  of  this  grandfather's  history,  Octavia  merely 


344  Pandora's   Box 

"It  needn't  bleed  for  me,  Auntie  Laura.  He  is  as 
fine  and  true  a  gentleman  as  there  is  in  England,  or 
anywhere  else.  And  he  is  high  minded,  strong,  am 
bitious,  kind  and — oh,  so  much  wiser  than  I  am! 
You  will  like  him,  Auntie  Laura.  You  can't  help 
it." 

"I  hope  you  are  not  deceived." 

"I  have  had  a  year  to  think  it  over." 

"And  you  have  no  misgivings?    Be  truthful." 

"Not  one.  You  think  I  should  marry  a  richer 
man  to  keep  the  castle;  but  other  girls  marry  the 
men  they  love.  Why  should  not  I?  Why  should 
I,  because  I  am  an  only  child,  pay  the  debts  of  the 
family,  and  sell  myself  to  do  it?" 

"A  woman  in  your  position,"  said  Auntie  George, 
her  chin  well  in  the  air,  "is  expected  to  make  certain 
sacrifices.  One  cannot  enjoy  the  privileges  of  noble 
birth  and  ignore  its  duties.  To  a  person  of  honor 
there  are  solemn  obligations." 

To  the  weary,  kneeling  girl — exhausted  and  spent 
with  emotion — these  words  of  "honor"  and  "sol 
emn  obligations"  fell  with  torturing  force.  Utter 
ing  a  moan  of  despair  she  bowed  her  face  in  her 
hands,  on  the  Duchess  of  Linsmere's  knees.  Then, 
with  convulsive  sobs  came  a  flood  of  tears. 

This  exhibition  of  misery  was  welcomed  by  Aun 
tie  George  as  a  sign  of  promise.  It  brought  into 
her  face  a  look — not  tender,  but  less  flinty — as  she 
gazed  upon  the  weeping  girl.  While  consoled  by  the 
knowledge  that  both  father  and  grandfather  would 


Darkening  Skies  345 

never  tolerate  the  possibility  of  such  a  degrading 
marriage  she  sincerely  pitied  Octavia  in  her  sor 
row  and  disappointment.  Although  indignant  at 
the  girl's  shameless  abasement,  her  affection  was 
sincere  and  unselfish.  But  no  affection  of  which 
Auntie  George  was  capable  could  ever  cope  with 
the  dominating  interest  of  her  life — a  reverence 
deep  and  holy  for  persons  of  gentle  birth — herself 
included.  She  enjoyed,  of  course,  a  corresponding 
aversion  to  the  lower  orders  of  humanity.  And 
of  these  was  Ethan  Lovejoy.  The  Duchess  of  Lins- 
mere,  although  enjoying  similar  opinions,  was  less 
positive.  Being  of  a  gentler  nature  and  with  broader 
sympathies  she  had  mastered  a  few  simple  human 
truths  that  were  forbidden  to  trespass  on  Auntie 
George's  mental  reservations.  And  now  she  stroked 
with  caressing  fingers  the  bowed  head  upon  her 
knees,  and  murmured  consolation. 

Her  words  of  consolation,  however,  abruptly 
ceased.  The  caressing  fingers,  as  if  caught  in  a 
guilty  act,  became  motionless.  The  eyes  of  the  two 
ladies  had  moved,  in  sudden  consternation,  to  the 
doorway,  where  stood  the  tall,  grim  figure  of  the 
Earl  of  Drumworth.  He  advanced  a  few  steps, 
then  raised  the  bushy  grey  eyebrows  in  surprise  as 
he  looked  down  upon  the  kneeling  figure. 

"What  is  it?"  demanded  his  fingers. 

Auntie  George  looked  toward  the  duchess,  hoping 
to  escape  the  explanation.  But  the  duchess,  in  turn, 
looked  toward  Auntie  George ;  for  this  man's  anger, 


336  Pandora's   Box 

"Oh,  you  know  it  is !" 

"Then  no  human  power  shall  part  us.  I  am  yours 
and  you  are  mine,  and  what  is  mine  I  hold.  Have  no 
fears.  To  make  you  happy  will  be  from  this  day  my 
first  ambition,  my  sacred  duty,  my  greatest  joy. 
And  when  I  undertake  a  thing,  that  is  humanly  pos 
sible,  I  see  it  through." 

Remembering  his  rescue — seemingly  impossible — 
of  Sally  Pindar,  she  made  no  reply  save  a  quiet 
smile  of  faith. 

Baseborn,  meanwhile,  with  a  singular  want  of 
delicacy — for  a  dog — stood  staring  up  into  their 
faces.  And  when  he  expressed  his  disapproval  by  a 
half  suppressed  but  not  unfriendly  growl,  both 
lovers  laughed  aloud ;  and  Octavia  stooped  and  pat 
ted  him.  "You  are  a  good  chaperon,  dear  hero,  and 
I  am  ashamed  of  myself." 

Slowly  and  sadly  Ethan  wagged  his  head.  "Dear 
hero!  Baseborn,  you  have  my  sympathy.  Even  I 
was  a  hero  once,  and  my  fall  was  sudden,  and  far— 
as  I  had  predicted." 

"But  Baseborn  is  not  presuming  and  impertinent. 
He  is  not  American." 

Meanwhile,  the  rosy  light  that  touched  the  towers 
of  Drumworth  Castle  was  slowly  fading.  The  hour 
of  parting  was  at  hand.  This  painful  ceremony, 
needlessly  prolonged,  was  accompanied  by  clasping 
of  hands  with  further  gazing  into  each  other's  faces, 
possibly  for  future  identification.  A  stranger  wit- 


Under  the  Greenwood  Tree    337 

nessing  this  scene  might  have  supposed  the  lady 
about  starting  for  the  Sandwich  Islands,  the  man 
for  Siberia.  Whereas,  the  ceremony  finished,  they 
walked  off  together,  across  the  lawn. 

At  the  door  of  the  castle  occurred  another  fare 
well,  but  more  formal — merely  a  pressure  of  the 
hand  and  a  final  look  into  each  other's  faces.  And 
in  Octavia's  eyes  Ethan  Love  joy  found  what  his 
own  declared,  and  what  he  most  desired — an  un 
wavering  faith. 


XXIX 

DARKENING  SKIES 

WHEN  a  sensitive  woman,  not  yet  recovered 
from  an  illness,  indulges  in  a  paralyzing 
terror,  an  hysterical  flight  through  treach 
erous  woods,  all  to  conclude  with  a  mortifying  en 
counter  for  which  she  is  unprepared,  then  surely 
there  is  cause  for  fatigue ;  and  reason  for  repose. 

So,  on  the  following  day,  Octavia  remained  in  her 
own  chamber.  The  ordeal  for  which  she  was  brac 
ing  herself  demanded  not  only  all  her  courage  but 
more  strength,  perhaps,  than  she  possessed.  It  was, 
in  truth,  a  serious  thing  to  announce  a  degrading 
misalliance  to  such  a  person  as  Auntie  George.  No 
dragon  ever  watched  a  treasure  with  sharper  eye 
than  Auntie  George  had  watched  Octavia.  All  un 
befitting  suitors  had  been  crushed  at  the  outer  wall. 
But  this  dread  of  Auntie  George,  itself  unnerving, 
seemed  a  trivial  thing  beside  the  fury  of  a  vindictive 
grandfather  whose  hatred  of  the  name  of  Ethan 
Lovejoy  was  so  bitter,  so  relentless  and  undying  that 
none  dared  whisper  it  in  his  presence.  More 
dreaded  than  all,  and  not  to  be  avoided,  was  the 
authority  of  an  ambitious  and  determined  parent. 

As  the  Duchess  of  Linsmere  was  to  dine  with 
338 


Darkening  Skies  339 

them  that  evening  Octavia  decided  to  defer  the. 
dreaded  interview.  On  second  thoughts,  however, 
she  changed  her  mind.  For  the  Duchess  of  Lins- 
mere,  although  mother  of  the  suitor  favored  by  both 
families,  was  kinder,  gentler  and  more  forgiving 
than  her  own  iron-hearted  relatives.  To  her  father 
she  had  despatched  a  letter  the  previous  afternoon. 
Letters  are  less  nerve  destroying  in  certain  emergen 
cies  than  personal  interviews. 

After  dinner  the  old  earl  went  off  for  his  smoke, 
leaving  the  three  ladies  in  the  library.  Baseborn  re 
mained  with  the  ladies.  Sentence  of  death  had  been 
hastily  cancelled  after  his  exploit  of  yesterday.  His 
heroism  on  the  field  of  battle,  together  with  his  gen 
eralship  in  covering  Octavia's  retreat,  had  aroused 
the  liveliest  admiration  throughout  the  entire  Drum- 
worth  household.  Even  Auntie  George  did  not  con 
ceal  her  gratitude. 

Octavia  fired  the  opening  gun.  Reclining  uncon 
cernedly  in  an  easy  chair,  stroking  with  the  toe  of 
her  slipper  the  recumbent  Baseborn,  she  remarked 
carelessly,  in  much  the  same  tone  as  she  would  have 
commented  on  the  weather; 

"I  am  engaged  to  be  married." 

Auntie  George,  always  erect — even  in  repose- 
leaned  forward,  a  sudden  joy  in  her  mirthless  eyes. 
The  face  of  the  duchess  also  brightened,  for  noth 
ing  was  dearer  to  this  mother  than  her  son's  happi 
ness.  Yet,  in  the  girl's  manner  was  a  faint  sug 
gestion  of  bravado,  an  air  of  almost  tragic  indif- 


34°  Pandora's  Box 

ference  not  habitual  with  bearers  of  joyful  tidings. 
In  a  low  voice,  almost  tremulous  with  hope,  the 
duchess  murmured,  "Is  it  Ned?" 

"No.    It  is  Ethan  Lovejoy." 

This  name,  for  the  briefest  moment,  had  no  sig 
nificance  to  Octavia's  audience.  So  seldom  had  it 
been  whispered  since  a  long  ago,  fateful  night  that 
now  it  struck  on  unexpecting  ears  as  the  resurrec 
tion  of  a  buried  evil.  Auntie  George's  eyes  rested 
on  Octavia  in  a  doubting  stare.  And  these  cold,  un 
winking  eyes  were  saying  that  if  this  was  a  joke  it 
was  in  hideous  taste.  The  Duchess  of  Linsmere, 
unable  to  comprehend,  looked  searchingly  and  sadly 
into  Octavia's  face. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence;  so  strained,  so 
ill-omened  and  unendurable,  that  Octavia  began  to 
speak.  She  gave  the  outlines  of  her  story.  And 
as  she  spoke,  and  looked  into  the  listening  faces, 
she  fully  realized  that  to  these  two  friends  she  was 
dealing  the  cruellest  blow  that  it  was  in  her  power 
to  give.  When  she  ceased  speaking  there  was  an 
other  silence,  even  more  disheartening.  The  Duch 
ess  of  Linsmere  had  sunk  back  in  her  chair,  motion 
less,  with  closed  eyes.  Auntie  George  tried  to  speak, 
but  her  voice  failed  her.  She  cleared  her  throat  and 
tried  again. 

"Of  course  you  are  aware,  Octavia,  that,  should 
you  do  this  incredible  thing  you  would  be  throwing 
into  the  gutter,  as  it  were,  your  birth  and  position ; 
all  that  make  you  what  you  are." 


Darkening   Skies  341 

"No.  Those  things,  Auntie  George,  do  not  make 
me  what  I  am." 

"You  would  give  up  your  country,  your  own  peo 
ple — for — for — such  a  person?" 

"Yes." 

"And  live  in  poverty?" 

"I  will  live  in  poverty." 

"And  work,  perhaps,  with  your  own  hands." 

"Yes,  and  cheerfully — with  him." 

Auntie  George  drew  a  deep  breath.  She  stared  at 
Octavia  in  silent  wonder.  This  matter  was  beyond 
her  comprehension.  She  was  astounded,  shocked, 
mortified — too  sick  at  heart  to  be  angry.  She 
hoped — or  almost  hoped — that  Octavia  might  be  in 
sane;  legally  unsound  in  mind,  and  so  avert  this 
shame.  Better  insanity,  or  death,  than  dishonor. 
But  these  thoughts  were  not  expressed.  When  again 
she  spoke  her  voice  was  low,  and  calm. 

"You  know  your  father  has  very  ambitious  plans 
for  you." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"He  will  forbid  it,  of  course." 

"Of  course." 

"You  will  be  very  courageous  if  you  try  to  dis 
obey  him." 

Octavia  made  no  answer. 

"You  will  be  the  first  woman  of  your  family  to 
stoop — quite  so  low." 

"So  low!    Are  not  architects  respectable?" 

"Yes.  So  are  barbers  and  policemen,  but  women 
of  your  station  do  not  marry  them." 


342  Pandora's   Box 

Then  the  duchess  spoke,  more  gently  than  Auntie 
George.  "It  is  hard  to  imagine  you,  dear  child,  liv 
ing  in  a  land  where  your  only  companions  are 
Americans,  whose  restless  wives  we  see  swarming 
over  Europe,  leaving  their  husbands  at  home.  The 
only  women  who  stay  quietly  at  home,  I  am  told, 
are  those  who  cannot  afford  to  travel." 

This  was  old  news  to  Octavia  and  she  made  no 
denial.  However,  she  answered,  with  a  smile; 

"If  those  women  are  so  obnoxious  I  shall  be  all 
the  happier  when  they  go  to  other  countries." 

Slowly  and  sadly  the  duchess  shook  her  head. 
"You  remember,  perhaps,  what  our  own  ambassa 
dor  says  of  society  in  the  States.  Like  dust  in  a 
workshop :  what  is  down  today  is  up  tomorrow." 

"Yes.    I  remember." 

"And  I  am  afraid,  my  dear  child,  that  you  are 
too  young  to  realize  what  it  means  to  live  among 
those  people:  to  forego  all  the  refinements  of  good 
society;  to  have  for  your  daily  associates  persons 
whose  highest  ambition  is  money,  and  what  it  buys. 
I  know  several  Americans.  The  only  reason  for 
their  presence  among  people  of  our  class  is  their 
monstrous  wealth.  But  this  architect,  I  presume, 
is  far  from  rich,  or  he  would  not  be  an  archi 
tect." 

"I  am  willing,  as  I  say,  to  live  simply." 

"Simply,  yes,  but  are  you  prepared  for  a  life 
long  struggle  against  humiliating  economies — and 
obscurity?" 

"If  I  love  my  husband." 


Darkening   Skies  343 

Of  this  crazy  speech  Auntie  George  had  an  opin 
ion,  but  she  refrained  from  uttering  it.  A  faint, 
patrician  snort,  almost  wholly  suppressed,  was  her 
only  comment.  After  a  moment's  pause,  she  said, 
with  more  than  usual  sweetness,  "I  have  always 
understood  that  Americans  are  much  addicted  to 
catarrh,  dyspepsia  and  nervous  prostration.  Is  this 
architect  healthy?" 

"He  seems  to  be." 

Then  Auntie  George,  whose  spine  never  relaxed, 
became  a  trifle  more  erect,  her  nose  a  trifle  more 
pinched,  her  lips  a  trifle  tighter.  "You  will  pardon 
the  question,  under  the  circumstances,  but  is  this — 
this  Mr.  Lovejoy  a  gentleman?" 

A  flush  came  to  Octavia's  cheeks.  Quietly,  how 
ever,  she  answered: 

"No.  His  manners  are  brutish.  To  women  they 
are  insulting.  He  chews  tobacco.  He  has  no  educa 
tion,  talks  through  his  nose  and  cannot  speak  gram 
matically.  He  eats  with  his  fingers.  No  gentleman 
could  associate  with  him.  No  honest  family  would 
admit  him  to  its  home." 

Auntie  George  raised  her  chin.  "You  are  pleased, 
Octavia,  to  be  facetious  in  a  matter  that  is  more 
than  regrettable.  It  is  tragic." 

"Yes,  my  child,"  murmured  the  duchess,  sadly. 
"It  is  tragic.  My  heart  bleeds  for  you." 

Impulsively  Octavia  stood  up,  then  she  went  over 
and  dropped  on  her  knees  before  the  duchess  and 
pressed  one  of  that  lady's  hands  against  her  cheek. 


344  Pandora's   Box 

"It  needn't  bleed  for  me,  Auntie  Laura.  He  is  as 
fine  and  true  a  gentleman  as  there  is  in  England,  or 
anywhere  else.  And  he  is  high  minded,  strong,  am 
bitious,  kind  and — oh,  so  much  wiser  than  I  am! 
You  will  like  him,  Auntie  Laura.  You  can't  help 
it." 

"I  hope  you  are  not  deceived." 

"I  have  had  a  year  to  think  it  over." 

"And  you  have  no  misgivings?    Be  truthful." 

"Not  one.  You  think  I  should  marry  a  richer 
man  to  keep  the  castle;  but  other  girls  marry  the 
men  they  love.  Why  should  not  I?  Why  should 
I,  because  I  am  an  only  child,  pay  the  debts  of  the 
family,  and  sell  myself  to  do  it?" 

"A  woman  in  your  position,"  said  Auntie  George, 
her  chin  well  in  the  air,  "is  expected  to  make  certain 
sacrifices.  One  cannot  enjoy  the  privileges  of  noble 
birth  and  ignore  its  duties.  To  a  person  of  honor 
there  are  solemn  obligations." 

To  the  weary,  kneeling  girl — exhausted  and  spent 
with  emotion — these  words  of  "honor"  and  "sol 
emn  obligations"  fell  with  torturing  force.  Utter 
ing  a  moan  of  despair  she  bowed  her  face  in  her 
hands,  on  the  Duchess  of  Linsmere's  knees.  Then, 
with  convulsive  sobs  came  a  flood  of  tears. 

This  exhibition  of  misery  was  welcomed  by  Aun 
tie  George  as  a  sign  of  promise.  It  brought  into 
her  face  a  look — not  tender,  but  less  flinty — as  she 
gazed  upon  the  weeping  girl.  While  consoled  by  the 
knowledge  that  both  father  and  grandfather  would 


Darkening  Skies  345 

never  tolerate  the  possibility  of  such  a  degrading 
marriage  she  sincerely  pitied  Octavia  in  her  sor 
row  and  disappointment.  Although  indignant  at 
the  girl's  shameless  abasement,  her  affection  was 
sincere  and  unselfish.  But  no  affection  of  which 
Auntie  George  was  capable  could  ever  cope  with 
the  dominating  interest  of  her  life — a  reverence 
deep  and  holy  for  persons  of  gentle  birth — herself 
included.  She  enjoyed,  of  course,  a  corresponding 
aversion  to  the  lower  orders  of  humanity.  And 
of  these  was  Ethan  Lovejoy.  The  Duchess  of  Lins- 
mere,  although  enjoying  similar  opinions,  was  less 
positive.  Being  of  a  gentler  nature  and  with  broader 
sympathies  she  had  mastered  a  few  simple  human 
truths  that  were  forbidden  to  trespass  on  Auntie 
George's  mental  reservations.  And  now  she  stroked 
with  caressing  fingers  the  bowed  head  upon  her 
knees,  and  murmured  consolation. 

Her  words  of  consolation,  however,  abruptly 
ceased.  The  caressing  fingers,  as  if  caught  in  a 
guilty  act,  became  motionless.  The  eyes  of  the  two 
ladies  had  moved,  in  sudden  consternation,  to  the 
doorway,  where  stood  the  tall,  grim  figure  of  the 
Earl  of  Drumworth.  He  advanced  a  few  steps, 
then  raised  the  bushy  grey  eyebrows  in  surprise  as 
he  looked  down  upon  the  kneeling  figure. 

"What  is  it?"  demanded  his  fingers. 

Auntie  George  looked  toward  the  duchess,  hoping 
to  escape  the  explanation.  But  the  duchess,  in  turn, 
looked  toward  Auntie  George ;  for  this  man's  anger, 


346  Pandora's   Box 

well  known  through  all  the  countryside,  was  a  thing 
to  be  avoided.  Auntie  George  cleared  her  throat. 
Her  voice,  when  it  came,  was  lower  than  usual,  and 
wavering : 

"Octavia  is  engaged  to  be  married. " 

At  these  words  Octavia,  divining  the  situation, 
rose  suddenly  to  her  feet,  took  a  backward  step  be 
hind  the  chair  of  the  duchess,  and  faced  her  grand 
father. 

On  the  earl's  lips  came  the  faint  resemblance  to 
a  smile.  But  it  was  thirty-three  years  since  a  smile 
had  visited  these  lips,  and  smiles  are  rarely  success 
ful  in  unfamiliar  territory.  So,  this  present  expres 
sion,  although  an  indication  of  welcome  news,  was 
merely  the  outward  sign  of  a  relapse  from  habitual 
gloom.  Even  promised  rescue  from  financial  ruin 
could  bring  no  brighter  display. 

'To  whom?"  inquired  the  fingers. 

Auntie  George  hesitated.  The  courage  to  utter 
the  forbidden  name  was  the  kind  of  courage  she  did 
not  possess.  Nervously  she  glanced  toward  Octavia. 
In  that  young  woman's  tear  stained  face  she  saw  a 
look  that  filled  her  with  a  new  dismay.  The  girl, 
erect  and  rigid,  her  chin  up,  her  eyes  resting  stead 
ily  on  her  grandfather,  seemed  a  living  statue  of 
reckless  courage  and  defiance.  In  a  voice  more 
choked  by  recent  tears  than  by  fear,  she  answered 
calmly ; 

"His  name  is  Ethan  Lovejoy." 

For  an  instant  the  Earl  of  Drumworth  seemed 


Darkening  Skies  347 

not  to  understand.  Then,  beneath  the  contracting 
brows  the  cold  eyes  blinked.  His  jaw  moved, 
spasmodically,  as  if  uttering  words.  It  was  evident 
that  he  did  not  believe;  that  he  doubted  his  own 
ears.  The  fingers  repeated,  this  time  confusedly, 
with  jerks  almost  beyond  control ; 

"To  whom?" 

"Ethan  Lovejoy.  An  American — an  architect 
who  was  working  here — in  the  old  hall — last  year." 

The  earl's  eyes  as  they  glared  upon  Octavia  were 
blinking  slowly  with  an  overwhelming  astonishment ; 
with  incredulity;  then  anger.  His  face,  in  the  un 
certain  light  from  the  various  lamps  about  the  room,, 
seemed  to  lose  its  color.  More  slowly,  now,  the. 
fingers  moved,  shaking  with  a  rising  passion. 

"Not  the — you  do  not  mean— 

"Yes,"  and  Octavia  was  startled  by  her  own 
courage — "the  son  of — the  one  you  knew." 

Then  occurred  a  thing  so  unexpected,  so  mirac 
ulous,  so  beyond  belief,  that  the  three  women  opened 
wide  their  eyes  in  wonder.  From  those  ever  silent 
lips  through  which  no  sound  had  issued  in  many 
years,  came  a  voice.  It  was  an  unnatural  sound,  an 
unknown  voice ;  a  voice  completely  forgotten  by  the 
speaker,  and  by  his  hearers.  Although  prolonged, 
as  if  words  were  in  his  brain,  no  definite  word  was 
uttered.  It  was  the  outburst  of  an  ungoverned  rage 
that  broke  its  barriers. 

Baseborn,  now  promoted  from  condemned  crimi 
nal  to  guardian  angel,  and  from  whom  the  power" 


34-8  Pandora's  Box 

of  speech  was  also  withheld,  said  nothing.  But  he 
seemed  to  understand,  and  he  trotted  over  to  Oc 
tavia' s  side.  He  could  read  no  message  from  the 
angry  fingers,  but  the  sound  was  ominous. 

Toward  Octavia  the  earl  advanced,  and  in  his 
face  there  was  a  look  these  women  had  seen  before. 
It  brought  Auntie  George  to  her  feet,  and  she 
stepped  in  front  of  him  with  outstretched,  pro 
testing  hands.  He  stopped.  Again  his  jaw  moved — 
or  rather  twitched — as  if  striving  for  speech.  But 
Fate  had  otherwise  decreed.  No  further  sound  ever 
issued  from  his  lips.  Moving  backward  a  step,  to 
allow  Octavia  free  passage  from  the  room,  he  point 
ed  to  the  door. 

"To  your  chamber,"  said  the  fingers  of  the  other 
hand. 

From  beside  the  duchess's  chair  Octavia  stepped 
forward;  not  hurriedly,  as  a  frightened  child,  but 
leisurely,  with  dignity  and  self  possession,  as  if  en 
tering  a  ball  room.  Out  of  the  library  she  passed, 
without  regarding  her  grandfather. 

At  her  heels  walked  Baseborn. 


XXX 

FROM  FATHER  TO  SON  ? 

BUT    Octavia   did    not   go   to   her   chamber. 
Through  the  hall  she  walked,  out  into  the 
night.    There,  on  the  terrace,  she  stood  for  a 
moment,  looking  up  at  the  heavens. 

From  the  east,  beyond  the  Old  Hall,  came  the 
soft,  far  reaching  glow  from  a  rising  moon.  The 
tranquil  beauty  of  this  night,  while  bringing  no  en 
couragement,  seemed,  by  its  peace  and  splendor, 
to  glorify  her  own  misery.  For  a  moment  she 
closed  her  eyes.  She  sought  comfort  by  inhaling 
the  dewy,  sweet  smelling  air.  But  the  air  of  night 
is  never  joyous:  the  greater  its  beauty,  the  sadder 
your  thoughts.  So  found  Octavia.  In  this  beauty 
of  a  perfect  night  she  breathed  only  a  soothing 
sadness. 

Descending  the  broad  steps  she  moved  along  the 
terrace,  then  through  her  own  garden.  Pushing 
open  the  little  door  she  passed  on  to  the  cloistered 
arches.  Through  the  silent  darkness  of  these  arches, 
she  walked  with  throbbing  heart,  but  unafraid.  It 
seemed,  however,  a  longer  journey  than  ever  before. 
The  presence  of  Baseborn,  close  behind,  gave  cour 
age.  In  yesterday's  crisis  he  had  shown  the  quality 

349 


350  Pandora's   Box 

of  his  devotion:  also  his  ability  to  defend.  Now, 
the  patter  of  his  feet  behind  her  upon  the  stone 
floor  of  the  cloisters,  cheered  flagging  muscles  and 
a  weary  heart. 

At  last,  from  beneath  the  yet  darker  archway, 
she  stepped  forth  into  the  Garden  of  the  Sleeping 
Beauty,  now  illumined  by  a  large,  round  moon,  just 
appearing  above  the  balustrade.  She  seemed  enter 
ing  another  world — a  world  of  peace  and  security : 
as  a  frail,  weary,  storm-driven  craft  when  it  reaches 
'harbor. 

Ethan  Love  joy,  with  a  cry  of  welcome,  sprang  up 
from  the  Kosyie  Benche  and  came  toward  her.  Into 
his  arms  she  walked.  Then,  as  they  closed  about 
her,  the  storm-driven  craft  felt  safe  at  last — snug 
harbored. 

With  that  fine  consideration  which  often  sur 
prises  us  in  untitled  persons,  Baseborn  stole  silently 
away,  and  vanished  in  the  surrounding  gloom. 

When,  after  a  reasonable  lapse  of  time,  Octavia 
began  gently  to  disengage  herself,  there  followed, 
leisurely,  in  no  haste,  a  touching  of  lips;  he  with 
both  hands  holding  the  moonlit  face.  It  was  that 
time  honored  rite  of  measureless  antiquity,  that 
breathing  of  two  souls  in  one,  where  the  gentler 
yields,  and  the  other,  with  overflowing  heart,  re 
ceives  from  the  lips  of  the  woman  he  most  desires 
the  silent  avowal  of  surrender. 

And  this  ecstatic  rite,  this  consecration,  was  all 
in  harmony  with  the  calm,  soft  light  from  the 


From   Father  to   Son         35* 

rising  moon — a  moonlight  heavy  with  the  perfume 
of  old  box  and  roses.  Among  the  mysterious 
shadows  of  the  neglected  garden,  in  this  fragrance 
of  forgotten  flowers,  might  well  be  hovering  the 
souls  of  other  lovers,  long  since  departed. 

Gently,  by  a  supporting  arm,  Octavia  was  led  to 
the  Kosyie  Benche.  Upon  this  bench — too  wide 
for  one,  but  for  two  a  perfect  fit — the  lovers  sat. 
And  when  they  were  comfortably  adjusted  there  en 
sued  a  silence  of  perfect  content.  This  silence  was 
broken  at  last  by  Ethan;  and  there  was  anxiety  in 
his  tone. 

"You  poor  girl !  How  you  tremble !  Your  hands. 
are  cold  and  your  cheeks  are  hot." 

Then  Octavia's  nerves,  upheld  by  force  of  will, 
gave  way.  Her  head  fell  against  his  shoulder.  And 
again,  the  second  time  that  evening,  she  wept. 

But  the  marble  cupid,  lit  up  by  the  rising  moon, 
still  danced  in  wanton  joy,  regardless  of  anxious 
lovers  in  his  vicinity. 

With  overwrought  nerves  and  breaking  voice 
Octavia  began  the  story  of  the  ill  omened  interview 
in  the  library  between  Auntie  George,  the  Duchess 
of  Linsmere,  and  herself.  As  she  went  on,  however, 
she  found  strength  and  comfort  in  the  compassion 
ate  but  ever  hopeful  Ethan. 

"Do  you  never  lose  courage?"  she  exclaimed. 
"Does  nothing  depress  you  ?  Have  you  no  misgiv 
ings,  ever — about  anything?" 

He  laughed.  "If  I  had  I  should  hide  them  from 
myself." 


352  Pandora's   Box 

"How  can  you  laugh!  It  is  like  laughing  at  a 
funeral." 

"Well,  it's  mine,  if  anybody's.  A  man  may  laugh 
at  his  own  funeral." 

"And  mine,  too,  darling  boy,  as  much  as  yours !" 

In  a  more  serious  tone  he  said:  "Now  listen, 
Heavenly  Thing.  If  there's  a  funeral  it  will  be  a 
funeral  of  blasted  hopes;  the  hopes  of  a  selfish  fam 
ily  that  failed  to  sell  its  daughter  to  the  highest  bid 
der.  But  go  on  with  the  story,  and  don't  omit  any 
thing  on  my  account.  My  feelings  are  far  beyond 
the  reach  of  Auntie  George — or  the  loving  grand 
father." 

"Yes,  he  is  horrible,"  murmured  Octavia  with  a 
shudder.  "But  I  fear  him  far  less  than  my  father; 
for  dad  is  saner,  and  a  stronger  man.  And  he  too 
has  an  awful  will;  and  he  is  so — so — determined  I 
shall  make  a  brilliant  match.  Oh,  I  have  no  idea 
how  it  will  all  end !" 

"Don't  worry.  It  will  all  end  well.  You  are  not 
a  child  to  be — " 

A  sound  not  far  away  brought  Ethan  to  his  feet. 
The  tall,  grim  figure  of  that  grandfather  whose 
name  had  just  passed  Octavia's  lips  was  coming  to 
ward  them.  And  his  walk  was  of  one  in  haste. 
Octavia  also  rose,  and  clutched  Ethan's  sleeve.  The 
approaching  man,  hard  visaged  and  grimmer  than 
ever  in  the  moonlight,  was  more  threatening,  more 
savagely  vindictive  than  Octavia  had  known  him. 
There  was  something  startling  in  the  glitter  of  his 


. 


'-STILL   DANCED    IN    WANTON  JOY— 


From   Father  to  Son          353 

eyes,  partly,  perhaps,  from  the  colorless  light  of  the 
moon.  From  the  twitching  of  the  overhanging  eye 
brows  and  his  jaw  he  seemed  insane  with  rage. 
Within  arm's  length  of  the  lovers  he  came,  stopped, 
and  with  a  swift,  peremptory  gesture  beckoned  his 
granddaughter  to  his  side.  But  the  old  earl's  face 
at  this  moment  would  have  sent  dismay  to  a  bolder 
heart  than  Octavia's.  Instead  of  obeying  the  com 
mand  she  shrunk  back,  instinctively,  and  clung  yet 
tighter  to  Ethan's  arm.  This  defiance  of  his  au 
thority  so  inflamed  a  passion  already  beyond  con 
trol,  that  he  raised  his  arm,  took  a  forward  step 
and  with  a  sudden,  unexpected  movement  brought 
down  his  fist,  well  aimed  for  Octavia's  head.  So 
quickly  was  it  done  that  it  reached  its  mark ;  but  its 
force  was  weakened  by  another  blow,  equally  rapid, 
that  landed  on  his  own  chest.  And  it  came  with 
a  vigor  that  sent  the  Earl  of  Drumworth  reeling 
backward,  backward — and  still  further  backward. 
Back  among  the  flowers  he  staggered,  always  striv 
ing,  but  in  vain,  to  recover  his  equilibrium.  At  last 
a  rose  bush  caught  a  foot,  and  held  it.  Then  he 
tumbled,  always  backward,  his  head,  as  he  fell, 
striking  the  pedestal  of  the  dancing  cupid. 

As  consciousness  faded  he  stared  with  straining 
eyes  at  the  woman — and  at  the  man  who  struck  him. 
With  his  vanishing  senses,  years  also  vanished. 
Was  he  living  again — here  in  the  same  garden,  with 
the  same  tranquil,  mocking  moon?  Was  he  living 
again  that  fateful  evening,  long  ago,  when  this — 


354  Pandora's   Box 

or  another — Ethan  Love  joy — defended — a — Drum- 
worth  woman? 

But  this  moment's  illusions  of  the  Earl  of  Drum- 
worth  were  never  reported.  The  sensations  of 
the  other  man  were  yet  more  bewildering,  and  not 
so  easily  explained.  In  silence,  as  if  spellbound,  he 
stood  gazing  at  the  face  of  the  fallen  man  as  it 
rested,  in  startling  relief,  against  the  base  of  the 
sportive  god. 

Octavia  laid  a  trembling  hand  on  Ethan's  arm, 
peered  up  into  his  eyes  and  whispered: 

"Are  you  hurt?" 

He  made  no  answer,  still  staring,  as  if  dazed,  at 
the  pallid  face  against  the  pedestal. 

"Are  you  hurt?"  she  repeated.  "Did  he  strike 
you?" 

"No.  But  I  have  that — that  unaccountable  feel 
ing  we  spoke  of  last  year,  in  the  old  hall,  and  on  this 
bench,  of  passing  through  the  same  experience  at 
some  other  period  of  my  life.  Only  now — " 

And  he  closed  his  eyes  as  if  to  collect  his  thoughts. 
"Only  now  it  is  so  strong,  so  astoundingly  real !  an 
almost  positive  knowledge  that  I  have  done  this  thing 
before,  here,  in  the  moonlight,  in  this  very  garden. 
I  seem  to  be  living  it  all  over  again — a  second  time." 

He  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  as  if  in  awe.  For  yonder 
white  face,  with  its  slowly  closing  eyes,  seemed  a 
link  between  himself  and  some  shadowy  past,  too 
remote  for  memory's  call.  Through  Octavia's  brain 
flashed  the  memory  of  his  mother's — and  his  fatlv 


From   Father   to   Son          355 

er's — adventure  on  this  very  spot,  an  adventure  ab 
solutely  similar  in  every  detail. 

For  a  moment  she  also  stood  silent.  Could  it  be 
that  this  mental  record  of  a  scene  was  inherited? 
That  a  profound  impression  on  the  father's  brain 
was  transmitted  to  the  son  and  registered  in  his 
own  brain  as  his  own  experience,  now  awakened 
into  life  by  the  event  itself? 

But  she  could  not  divulge  these  thoughts  without 
violating  her  promise  to  his  mother.  Startled  by 
what  appeared  an  almost  supernatural  coincidence 
she  stood  closer  yet  to  Ethan's  side.  And  she,  too, 
gazed  in  wonder  at  the  dancing  cupid  and  the  ghost 
ly  figure  at  its  base. 


XXXI 

A  TOUCH  OF  FATE 

AFTER  the  departure  of  Octavia  and  her 
grandfather  there  was  solemn  conversation 
in  the  library  between  Auntie  George  and  the 
Duchess  of  Linsmere.  The  duchess  had  been  crushed 
by  Octavia's  announcement.  Her  sorrow  was  deep, 
as  if  the  disgrace  had  befallen  her  own  daughter. 
Auntie  George's  grief  was  relieved  by  anger.  It  was 
also  alleviated  by  hope,  as  she  had  confidence  in  the 
unbending  will  of  Octavia's  father.  He  would  ar 
rive  this  evening — at  any  moment.  And  Lady 
Georgiana  knew  that  few  daughters  of  human  clay 
would  oppose  the  will  of  such  a  father  as  Lord 
Aylesden  when  he  was  once  in  earnest. 

There  came  to  this  lady's  lips  a  smile — not  a 
tender  smile — as  she  looked  forward  to  the  ap 
proaching  exhibition  of  this  parent's  feelings.  For 
his  most  serious  ambition,  in  fact  the  one  serious 
purpose  of  his  life,  was  a  splendid  alliance  for  Oc 
tavia.  So,  while  mortified  by  Octavia's  delusion, 
Auntie  George  found  solace  in  the  prospect  of  the 
coming  victory. 

356 


A   Touch   of  Fate  357 

The  two  ladies  had  been  sitting  a  half-hour  or 
more  in  subdued  but  excited  communion  when  a 
sound  in  the  hall  brought  silence. 

Octavia,  whom  they  believed  in  her  chamber, 
came  running  into  the  castle  from  the  terrace  and 
went  straight  to  the  telephone.  The  telephone  was 
in  a  far  corner,  near  the  stairs;  but  they  heard  her 
message  to  Dr.  Wherry. 

"Come  as  quickly  as  you  can.  Grandfather  has 
fallen  and  struck  his  head  against  a  stone  in  the 
garden.  He  is  unconscious.  Oh,  do  hurry!" 

Out  into  the  hall  hastened  the  two  ladies.  They 
saw  the  Earl  of  Drumworth,  supported  by  another 
man,  entering  slowly  from  the  terrace.  Upon  this 
man  he  was  leaning  heavily,  with  half  closed  eyes. 
Into  the  library  they  led  him,  and  placed  him  in  his 
own  arm  chair.  Then,  slowly,  he  raised  his  head 
until  it  rested  against  the  high  back  of  the  chair. 
Slowly,  also,  the  eyes  opened  and  he  looked  about, 
still  dazed,  and  not  fully  comprehending. 

With  these  signs  of  recovery  the  Duchess  of 
Linsmere  and  Auntie  George  found  a  moment  to 
study  the  invader.  It  was  not  the  moment  for  for 
mal  introductions,  nor  were  they  needed.  Both 
women  suspected  who  the  stranger  was,  and  their 
suspicions  were  correct. 

They  found  him  a  tall  and  lean  young  man,  rather 
muscular  and  "bony,"  dressed  in  grey,  like  many 
other  men ;  not  handsome,  but  not  quite  so  impossi 
bly  vulgar  as  they  expected.  He  seemed  more  con- 


358  Pandora's   Box 

cerned  about  the  injured  man  than  any  impression 
he  was  making  upon  the  ladies  present. 

The  old  earl's  eyes,  with  returning  senses,  moved 
drowsily  over  the  group  about  him  until  they  rested 
on  Ethan's  face.  Then,  a  lowering  of  the  eyebrows 
and  a  twitching  of  the  mouth.  From  the  lips  came 
no  words,  but  if  it  is  possible  for  eyes  to  bestow 
a  curse,  then  the  look  from  this  much  punished  man 
delivered  whatever  message  the  dumb  lips  failed  to 
utter.  This  hostile  glance,  overflowing  with  hate 
and  vindictive  promise,  was  followed  by  rapid  mo 
tions  of  his  fingers. 

Octavia,  the  deepest  distress  in  her  face,  looked 
up  at  Ethan  who  was  standing  beside  her.  He  re 
turned  the  look  with  a  smile.  The  smile,  while  hard 
ly  perceptible,  was  calmly  confident. 

"Was  he  addressing  me?"  he  inquired. 

Octavia  nodded. 

"What  does  he  say?" 

The  girl's  lips  parted,  but  her  voice  failed.  The 
words  seemed  to  choke  her.  Tears  came  to  her  eyes 
and  she  pressed  a  tremulous  hand  against  a  cheek. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Ethan,  gently.  "It  didn't 
look  very  friendly  and  I  can  get  along  nicely  with 


out  it." 


But  Auntie  George's  nerves  were  firmer  than 
those  of  her  niece.  Moreover,  her  heart  was  not 
torn  by  needless  sympathy.  Looking  the  intruder 
steadily  in  the  eye  she  spoke  in  the  clearest  of  tones : 

"He  tells  you,  sir,  that  the  son  of  such  a  mother 
has  no  place  in  this  house." 


A  Touch  of  Fate  359 

"My  mother?" 

"You  certainly  can  comprehend  why  any  remind 
er  of  your  mother  in  this  family  is — offensive." 

"Offensive !  I  have  not  the  slightest  comprehen 
sion,  madam,  of  what  is  in  your  mind!" 

Auntie  George's  glance  rested  for  an  instant  upon 
the  Duchess  of  Linsmere  as  if  for  aid  in  replying  to 
this  brazen  assurance.  But  the  Duchess  of  Lins 
mere  was  gazing  at  Ethan  more  in  pity  than  in 
anger.  Auntie  George  half  closed  her  eyes  as  if 
weaned  by  the  invader's  mendacity. 

"Do  you  wish  us  to  believe  that  you  know  nothing 
of  your  own  mother?" 

"On  the  contrary  I  know  much  about  my  own 
mother.  I  know  there  is  no  better  woman  in  the 
world." 

At  these  words  Auntie  George  actually  quivered 
with  anger.  "Indeed  1  Then  it  is  your  opinion  that 
wives  who  desert  their  lawful  husbands  to  run  away 
with  their  lovers  are  the  best  of  women?" 

These  words  awakened  a  memory  in  Ethan. 
After  his  father's  death  he  had  found,  among  some 
business  papers,  a  letter  from  Bridgewater,  England. 
The  writer  had  alluded  to  some  man— the  name  not 
given— from  whom  his  mother  had  fled  because  of 
a  brutal  act.  Ethan  had  never  mentioned  this  letter 
to  his  mother  as  he  suspected  she  wished  something 
in  her  past  forgotten.  But,  since  reading  that  letter, 
whenever  he  saw  a  certain  scar  on  his  mother's  face 
there  came  a  strong  desire  for  a  meeting,  in  a  fair 
field,  with  the  man  who  had  given  it 


360  Pandora's   Box 

Although  Auntie  George's  manner  was  even  more 
stinging  than  her  words  Ethan  answered  calmly : 

"Your  opinion  of  my  mother  was  neither  asked 
nor  desired.  I  happen  to  know  that  she  escaped 
from  a  murderous  brute,  obtained  a  divorce  in 
America  and  married  a  good  man." 

"A  murderous  brute!"  repeated  Auntie  George. 
The  Earl  of  Drumworth  brought  down  a  fist  upon 
the  table.     But  Ethan  observed  him  not.     His  eyes 
were  on  Auntie  George  as  he  inquired : 

"If  a  man  who  can  strike  a  woman  to  the  floor, 
then  kick  her  face  as  she  lies  at  his  feet— if  he  is  not 
a  murderous  brute,  what  is  he?  What  better  name 
can  you — or  anybody  else — suggest?" 

Auntie  George's  face  was  white  as  she  answered : 
"Bravely  spoken,  sir!     I  like  your  courage;  the 
courage  to  insult  a  man  much  older  than  yourself 
in  his  own  home,  in  the  presence  of  his  family." 
"When  have  I  ever  done  so?" 
"Perhaps  you  will  tell  us  next—  "  with  a  gesture 
toward  the  Earl  of  Drumworth— "that  you  do  not 
know  who  this  gentleman  is?" 
"Certainly  I  do." 

"Quite  a  confession !  But  you  had  no  suspicion, 
of  course,  that  your  mother  was  once  his  wife." 

The  surprise  that  came  into  Ethan's  face  was  real, 
—far  too  real  for  possibility  of  doubt.  In  incredu 
lous  wonder  his  eyes  remained,  an  instant,  on  the 
speaker's  face.  Astounded  and  in  silence  he  stared 
blankly  at  the  old  earl.  Then,  still  doubting,  his 


A  Touch  of  Fate  361 

eyes  moved  slowly  to  the  Duchess  of  Linsmere;  and 
finally  to  Octavia.  From  Octavia  came  an  answer 
ing  look  with  a  slight  movement  of  the  head — con 
firming  the  words.  Into  Ethan's  eyes  and  in  the 
tightening  of  his  mouth,  Octavia  saw,  with  dismay, 
the  same  look  that  had  come  into  his  face  when  he 
left  her  yesterday,  to  meet  the  man  in  the  woods. 
He  took  one  step  forward,  nearer  the  earl.  In  a 
tone  of  suppressed  anger,  bitterly  contemptuous,  he 
said,  slowly,  with  trenchant  emphasis  on  the  final 
word : 

"So,  you — are  the — gentleman!" 

The  words  were  few ;  but  the  manner  of  their  ut 
terance,  vibrant  with  unspeakable  contempt,  more 
insulting  far  than  volumes  of  abuse,  seemed  to  fur 
nish  a  sudden  strength  that  lifted  the  proud  old  man 
to  his  feet.  He  leaned  upon  the  table  at  his  side, 
shaking  with  passion.  Had  the  Earl  of  Drumworth 
even  his  usual  strength  there  would  have  followed 
yet  another  personal  encounter.  That  the  son  of 
that  pair,  a  pair  forever  damned,  instead  of  apolo 
gizing  for  his  existence  should  take  the  role  of  ac 
cuser,  was  a  thing  monstrous  and  unbearable.  One 
hand  upon  the  table  to  steady  the  swaying  frame, 
the  fingers  of  the  other  hand  shot  forth  a  message. 
The  message  was  ignored.  For  an  appealing  ges 
ture  from  Octavia,  at  his  side,  caused  Ethan  to  re 
treat  a  step  and  turn  toward  her.  The  gesture  and 
Octavia's  anxious  face  ended  the  scene  between  the 
two  men.  Forgetting  apparently  the  other  persons 


362  Pandora's  Box 

present,  Ethan  took  the  protesting  hand,  and  held  it. 
Looking  down  into  her  frightened  face  he  tried  to 
smile.  But  the  recent  anger  was  too  strong  to  be  so 
easily  suppressed. 

Octavia  saw  the  effort,  understood  the  struggle 
and  she  too,  almost  smiled.  These  defeated  smiles, 
however,  served  to  emphasize  the  blessed  truth,  that 
so  long  as  there  was  peace  and  perfect  understand 
ing  between  Ethan  and  Octavia  all  else  was  unim 
portant. 

From  this  brief  oblivion  to  a  hostile  neighborhood 
they  were  swiftly  recalled.  The  earl's  fist  again 
upon  the  table — a  blow  that  rattled  the  porcelain 
shades  of  a  heavy  lamp — drew  their  eyes  to  the 
moving  fingers  of  his  other  hand.  These  fingers  of 
an  outstretched  arm  were  dancing  with  infuriate 
haste.  The  Earl  of  Drum  worth  was  not  in  the 
habit  of  being  ignored,  and  the  fingers  were  now  de 
livering  a  message  that  was  more  than  emphatic. 
It  was  also  clear  to  Ethan  that  the  message  was  foi; 
himself.  It  was  so  abusive  of  himself  and  his  mo 
tives,  so  insulting  to  his  father  and  his  mother,  that 
the  Duchess  of  Linsmere  lowered  her  eyes  to  avoid 
it;  and  Octavia,  anguish  in  her  face,  shrank  back 
with  a  moan  of  horror.  When  the  fingers  ceased — 
clenched  in  a  shaking  fist,  still  extended  toward  the 
victim — Ethan  turned  to  Octavia,  inquiring,  by  a 
look,  the  meaning  of  it  all.  But  while  Octavia  hesi 
tated,  Auntie  George  again  took  up  the  burden.  But 


A  Touch  of  Fate  363 

even  Auntie  George  appeared  to  shrink  from  a  full 
translation. 

"He  tells  you,  sir,  among  other  things,  to  leave 
this  house  and  never  enter  it  again." 

As  she  delivered  this  cordial  message,  Auntie 
George  made  little  effort  to  conceal  a  triumphant 
satisfaction.  And  her  eyes,  as  they  rested  frigidly 
on  those  of  the  recipient,  expressed  the  natural  con 
tempt  of  a  lady  of  quality  for  a  person  of  the  lowest 
origin,  thwarted  in  his  villainy. 

Ethan's  eyebrows  moved  slightly  upwards  as  he 
looked  down  upon  the  erect,  rigid  little  figure.  With 
an  inclination  of  his  head,  ceremoniously  polite,  he 
murmured : 

"Thank  you." 

Then,  moving  yet  closer  to  Octavia,  he  spoke  in  a 
voice  too  low  for  others  to  hear:  "Don't  worry. 
Take  a  rest  tomorrow.  When  you  are  ready  to  see 
me  leave  a  note  in  Pandora's  box." 

With  a  pressure  of  her  nearest  hand  he  backed 
away  a  step,  toward  the  door.  With  a  bow  that  in 
cluded  the  entire  battle  front  of  the  enemy — the  two 
dames  and  the  glowering  earl — he  was  about  to  de 
part  when  Auntie  George  spoke  again. 

"Kindly  wait  a  moment,  sir.  There  is  a  gentle 
man  in  the  hall  who  desires  a  word  with  you." 

This  lady's  expectant  ears  had  been  the  first  to 
hear  an  approaching  motor  and  the  closing  of  an 
outer  door.  Her  words  were  followed  by  a  silence 


364  Pandora's   Box 

— a  silence  almost  unbearable  to  Octavia;  solemn 
and  portentous  to  Ethan. 

This  silence  was  broken  by  approaching  footsteps 
in  the  hall.  These  footsteps,  firm,  decisive,  rapid, 
were  those  of  a  man  wasting  no  time  before  accom 
plishing  his  purpose.  To  Octavia  it  seemed  the 
tread  of  the  executioner.  With  every  footfall  her 
heart  beat  fainter.  Vainly  she  tried  to  control  a 
sudden  weakness  of  her  limbs.  Dreading  a  collapse 
of  nerves  already  overstrained,  she  sank  into  the 
nearest  chair.  Upon  Ethan  Lovejoy  Auntie  George's 
slowly  winking  eyes  rested  in  pious  enjoyment  of 
Virtue's  triumph  over  Knavery. 

When  Lord  Aylesden  stepped  into  the  room  he 
found  himself  the  center  of  a  surprising  group.  His 
reception,  also,  was  surprising.  There  were  no 
words  of  welcome.  Even  his  daughter  had  no  greet 
ing  for  him.  He  stood  for  a  moment  in  a  funereal 
silence — the  very  silence  of  the  tomb.  After  a  brief 
survey  of  the  semi  circle  of  faces — five  pairs  of  eyes 
all  watching  him  with  solemn  earnestness — his  own 
expression  became  graver  yet.  To  Octavia,  his  jaw, 
always  too  heavy,  seemed  more  than  ever  like  her 
grandfather's. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  inquired.  "Is  there  a 
death  in  the  family?" 

Auntie  George  at  this  hour  of  triumph,  while  in 
wardly  jubilant,  felt  a  touch  of  pity  for  Octavia. 
And  her  voice  became  a  trifle — just  a  trifle — less 
metallic  as  she  asked : 


A  Touch  of  Fate  3^5 

"Did  you  not  receive  my  telegram?'* 
"Yes.    Also  Octavia's  letter.    And  here  I  am." 
His  father,  at  this  point,  rapped  sharply  on  the 
table  for  attention,  then  pointed  a  quivering  finger  at 
Ethan  Lovejoy.     For  Ethan,  in  stepping  backward 
from  the  doorway,  was  now  standing  almost  behind 
the  new  arrival. 

Lord  Aylesden,  in  obedience  to  the  finger,  turned 
his  head.  Then  followed  an  act  frequently  wit 
nessed,  and  usually  of  small  importance.  But  on 
this  occasion  it  drove  the  color  from  Auntie  George's 
cheeks.  It  brought  to  her  face  a  look  of  horror, 
then  of  incredulity.  She  gasped,  and  seemed  to  ut 
ter  an  exclamation.  But  it  died  in  a  whisper.  The 
eyes  of  the  Duchess  of  Linsmere  opened  wide  in 
wonder.  And  the  act  imparted  a  sudden  galvanic 
power  to  the  legs  of  the  Earl  of  Drumworth  that 
almost  raised  him  from  the  floor.  As  for  Octavia, 
she  doubted  her  own  ears — and  eyes. 

The  deed  that  caused  these  mad  emotions  was  a 
simple  thing  and  calmly  done.  When  the  avenging 
parent  turned  and  saw  the  man  behind  him,  his  face 
lit  up  with  the  smile  that  often  redeemed  a  rather 
cold  and  unresponsive  face.  And  he  extended  a 
hand  in  friendly  greeting  toward  the  astonished 
suitor. 

"Mr.  Lovejoy!  Pardon  me.  I  did  not  see  you. 
So  you  and  Octavia  have  been  stealing  a  march  on 


366  Pandora's    Box 

As  Ethan  took  the  proffered  hand,  too  amazed  to 
speak,  Auntie  George  recovered  her  voice.  "Robert !" 
she  exclaimed.  "Are  you  crazy?" 

Lord  Aylesden  smiled :     "No,  I  hope  not." 

The  Earl  of  Drumworth,  to  draw  his  son's  atten 
tion,  brought  down  upon  the  table  at  his  side,  and 
with  all  his  energy,  a  heavy  paper  cutter,  shattering 
the  ivory  handle  as  it  struck.  Then,  in  vehement 
rage,  his  fingers  twitched.  When  their  action  ceased 
the  son  moved  his  head  as  if  agreeing  with  the 
fingers. 

"Yes,  I  know  who  he  is.  And  I  have  looked  him 
up.  According  to  all  accounts  he  is  the  most  su 
perior  person — after  George  Washington — that 
America  has  produced.  And,  after  all,  we  had  better 
forget  the  past.  Moreover,  he  is  well  able  to — " 

With  both  hands  uplifted  the  father  stopped  him. 
Again  began  the  fingers.  And  again  Ethan  divined 
the  question  from  its  answer. 

"I  know,"  said  Lord  Aylesden,  and  his  manner 
became  more  serious.  "I  know  all.  Your  feelings 
are  respected.  But  I  am  sure  we  prefer  having  the 
Drumworth  acres  and  the  castle  belong  to  the 
mother  of  Octavia's  husband,  rather  than  to  Mr. 
Levi  Goldberg." 

Auntie  George  swallowed — to  recover  her  voice — 
and  when  it  came  it  seemed  hoarse,  and  weak. 
"Kindly  tell  us  what  you  mean." 

Lord  Aylesden  joined  his  hands  behind  him, 
fixed  his  eyes  upon  Baseborn — to  avoid  seeing  his 


A  Touch  of  Fate  367 

father's  face,  a  face  eloquent  with  rage,  although 
the  tips  were  dumb — and  he  spoke  slowly.  "I  mean 
that  Mr.  Lovejoy's  mother  now  holds  the  mort 
gage.  In  other  words,  she  has  practically  purchased 
the  Drumworth  estate." 

At  these  words  four  pairs  of  wondering  eyes 
were  turned  upon  Ethan  Lovejoy.  His  own  eyes, 
also  in  wonder,  rested  on  the  speaker. 

"Moreover/'  said  Lord  Aylesden,  "I  suspect  that 
she  intends  giving  it  to  her  son." 

The  sudden  strength  which  had  lifted  the  old  earl 
to  his  feet  seemed  as  suddenly  to  depart.  His  knees 
bent,  and  he  sank  down  into  his  seat.  With  both 
hands  clutching  the  arms  of  the  chair,  his  head 
dropped  forward.  But  the  hostile  eyes  beneath  the 
overhanging  brows  remained  fixed  on  Ethan's  face 
— on  the  face  of  this  woman-stealer ;  the  thieving 
son  of  a  thieving  father. 

Octavia,  radiant  with  surprise  and  joy,  had  moved 
to  Ethan's  side.  In  her  eyes,  however,  was  a  shade 
of  reproof  as  she  murmured :  "You  never  told  me 
of  your  mother  being  so  dreadfully  rich." 

He  made  a  gesture  of  apology.  "You  never 
asked  me.  But  I  had  no  idea  she  was  up  to  such 
mischief." 

Lord  Aylesden  smiled.  "Good  mischief  that  gives 
you  Drumworth  castle  for  a  home !" 

Octavia,  with  glistening  eyes,  came  up  to  her 
father  and  twined  her  arms  around  his  neck.  "Oh, 
dad,  you  have  made  me  so  happy — so  happy !" 


Pandora's    Box 

His  only  reply  was  to  press  his  lips  to  her  fore 
head.  Then  Ethan  gulped.  And  being  unable  to 
conceal  his  joy  he  forgot  his  environment  for  an 
instant  and  looked  about  him  with  an  involuntary 
smile.  Entirely  by  accident  this  smile  extended  to 
the  Earl  of  Drumworth.  The  sinister  glare  from 
beneath  those  frowning  brows  would  have  driven 
any  ordinary  smile  to  a  sunless  death.  But  this 
smile  was  far  from  ordinary.  It  was  a  message  of 
unlimited  rapture  to  the  world  at  large,  silent  but 
inextinguishable.  From  the  hating  earl  Ethan's  eyes 
moved  amiably  toward  Auntie  George  and  rested, 
still  smiling,  upon  that  lady's  polar  countenance.  Her 
stiff,  erect  little  figure  had  become  yet  stiffer  and 
yet  more  erect.  Her  thin  lips  were  so  tightly  com 
pressed  as  to  be  invisible.  Her  face  seemed  to  be 
growing  smaller,  whiter  and  more  determined. 
For,  in  whatever  concerned  Octavia,  Auntie  George 
was  unselfish — unselfish  to  the  full  capacity  of  her 
highly  respectable  soul.  And  it  was  better  for  Oc 
tavia  that  Drumworth  Castle  should  be  owned  and 
occupied  by  a  stranger  than  the  family  honor 
dragged  in  the  mud  by  an  alliance  with  this  offspring 
of  a  shameless,  runaway  mother.  So,  she  returned 
the  lover's  impersonal  smile  with  a  stare  of  measure 
less  disdain.  But  Ethan,  at  this  moment,  was  im 
pervious  to  any  human  snub.  He  lowered  his  eyes, 
still  smiling,  to  Baseborn's  less  patrician  but  more 
responsive  face.  And  so  far  as  a  dog  can  return  a 
smile  Baseborn  did  it. 


A  Touch  of  Fate  369 

Moreover,  he  arose,  in  front,  and  rested  his 
forepaws  against  Ethan's  legs,  thus  making  it  clearly 
understood  that  he  shared  the  feelings  of  his  friend, 
whatever  their  nature  and  whatever  the  occasion. 

The  old  earl  closed  his  eyes.  Lower  still  he  bent 
his  head  beneath  the  Fate  that  jeers  at  human  hopes. 
In  his  brain  were  thoughts  unuttered — and  unutter 
able.  Had  his  curses  come  home  to  roost?  Was 
this  the  harvest? — the  harvest  of  thirty  years  of 
unrelenting  hate  that  had  followed,  day  and  night, 
over  distant  seas  and  unknown  lands,  one  Ethan 
Lovejoy  and  his  stolen  bride?  Could  the  jeering 
Fate  devise  a  sharper  blow  ? 

The  answer  was  standing  before  him  in  the  son 
of  that  execrated  pair. 

And  this  second  Ethan  Lovejoy — the  owner  of 
Drumworth  Castle! 

And  his  bride — Octavia ! 


XXXII 

INSPIRATION 

AUNTIE  GEORGE  was  not  fond  of  reptiles. 
Her  loathing  for  ignoble  things  was  pos 
itive  and  unchangeable.  So,  the  next 
morning,  when  forced  to  greet  Ethan  Love  joy  in 
the  library,  to  smile  and  to  shake  hands  with  him, 
there  was  call  for  heroism — but  she  did  it.  Her 
smile,  rightly  interpreted  by  Ethan,  was  a  maledic 
tion.  Her  cold  fingers  were  swiftly  withdrawn  as 
from  contact  with  a  crocodile,  a  toad  or  a  snake.  A 
guest  with  a  duller  sense  of  humor  might  have  been 
discomposed.  But  Ethan,  this  morning  was  in  the 
highest  heaven;  far  above  earthly  troubles.  His 
own  big  heart  had  so  expanded  as  to  comprise  the 
universe  entire — at  least  the  Drumworth  universe. 
Little  snubs  from  Auntie  George  were  as  snow-flakes 
beneath  a  July  sun.  Unlike  the  lady,  he  could  have 
shaken  hands  with  toads  and  crocodiles,  and  em 
braced  Auntie  George  herself.  But  there  came  a 
surprise  in  the  greeting  from  the  Duchess  of  Lins- 
mere.  She,  the  greatest  loser,  whose  only  son  had 
missed  his  one  desire,  could  forgive  the  offender. 
She  met  him  with  a  cordial  smile,  a  warm  pressure 

370 


Insp 


iration  37* 


of  the  hand,  and  an  invitation  to  her  own  home. 

The  Earl  of  Drumworth  did  not  appear.  To  con 
front  with  calmness  or  with  self-possession  this  son 
of  those  impossible  parents  was  beyond  his  powers. 
He  remained  in  his  own  rooms.  And  he  regaled 
himself  in  his  solitude  by  chewing,  with  considerable 
violence,  the  cud  of  hate. 

The  two  lovers  motored  to  the  station  with  Oc- 
tavia's  father.  After  returning  to  the  castle,  they 
started  along  the  terrace,  toward  the  Garden  of  the 
Sleeping  Beauty.  There  was  much  to  be  said.  And 
they  said  it. 

Baseborn  was  along.  And  the  joy  of  life  was  in 
him.  To  the  limit  of  his  capacity,  which  was  great, 
he  shared  the  happiness  of  his  friends.  He  circled 
about  them  with  reckless  speed.  At  intervals,  from 
the  fulness  of  a  bursting  heart,  he  lifted  up  his 
voice.  Ethan  was  far  too  happy  this  morning  for 
any  display  of  dignity.  He  picked  flowers  and  gave 
them  to  Octavia  with  foolish  speeches,  not  for  pub 
lication  here.  His  conversations  with  Baseborn — 
mostly  about  his  fiancee — would  have  caused  no 
astonishment  to  Lucy  Lake,  as  coming  from  a  kind 
but  crazy  gentleman.  Octavia  herself  rebuked  him 
with  as  much  severity  as  is  possible  with  a  mirthful 
face:  "How  silly  you  are  this  morning!  You  be 
have  like  an  overgrown  boy." 

Behind  a  hedge  in  Octavia's  little  garden  he  put 
an  arm  about  her  waist.  With  an  upward  glance 
toward  the  castle  she  drew  away. 


372  Pandora's  Box 

"Only  angels  can  see  us,"  said  Ethan. 

"What  better  reason  for  behaving  ourselves?" 

"Oh,  come  now!    Are  British  angels  prigs?" 

She  made  no  reply  save  a  movement  of  the  head, 
then  walked  on  in  front  of  him. 

"Have  lovers  any  rights?"  he  demanded. 

Still  she  heeded  him  not,  and  he  took  her  gently 
by  the  shoulders  and  turned  her  about.  Looking 
gravely  into  her  eyes  he  inquired : 

"Do  you  forget  the  words  of  the  Reverend  Barley 
Koppsitt  ?" 

"I  never  heard  of  him  nor  his  words,  and  I  don't 
care  to  hear  about  him  now." 

Still  holding  her  shoulders,  he  repeated  impress 
ively  : 

If  a  sniffty  woman  snubs  you, 

Said  the  Reverend  Barley  Koppsitt, 

The  nicest  way  to  treat  her  is 
To  kiss  her  till  she  stops  it. 

Octavia  smiled,  but  with  another  cautious  glance 
toward  the  castle  walls.  Then,  looking  down  into 
the  eyes  that  were  watching  this  tete-a-tete  with 
lively  interest : 

"Baseborn,  are  you  no  longer  my  protector? 
Won't  you  bite  this  American  ?" 

But  Baseborn,  for  once,  ignored  her  request.  And 
he,  with  his  two  followers,  passed  on  through  the 
little  gate,  along  the  cloistered  arches. 

When,    from    beneath    the    old    archway,    they 


Inspiration  373 

stepped  forth  into  the  Garden  of  the  Sleeping 
Beauty,  they  stood  silent  for  a  moment  in  a  mild 
enchantment: — as  if  re-entering  Arcadia.  For  the 
old  garden,  and  all  that  was  in  it,  seemed  greet 
ing  them  this  morning  with  a  smile  of  welcome. 
The  sky  seemed  bluer,  the  flowers  gayer,  the  birds 
more  joyous  than  ever  before.  There  was  a  general 
air  of  rejoicing.  The  dancing  cupid  had  forgotten 
the.  drama  of  the  night  before.  Now,  he  was 
capering  in  the  morning  sunshine,  reckless,  devil- 
may-care,  impudent  as  ever,  exulting  in  wanton  glee 
over  the  uncounted  centuries  of  rapture  and  of 
sorrow  he  had  brought  upon  the  human  race. 

A  bumble-bee,  descendant  perhaps  of  the  intruder 
in  the  old  hall  a  year  ago,  came  reeling  by  in  sonor 
ous  intoxication.  And  it  was  natural  that  the  pale 
roses  of  Anne  Boleyn,  looking  down  from  the  castle 
wall,  should  quicken  with  a  warmer  color  when 
Ethan  looked  up  with  a  grateful  smile  and  raised  his 
cap.  Octavia  tossed  them  a  kiss. 

"Also  my  blessing,"  said  Ethan,  "upon  Lucy 
Lake." 

Octavia  closed  her  eyes,  and  with  upturned  face 
drew  a  long,  slow  breath  and  murmured,  "What  a 
perfect  day!"  And  as  she  spoke  Ethan  drew  her 
toward  him,  approaching  his  face  to  hers,  intent 
upon  that  quaint  performance  so  unavoidable,  ap 
parently,  with  persons  in  their  relation.  But  Octa 
via,  from  a  willing  co-operator  with  smiling  face 


374  Pandora's    Box 

and  yielding  body  suddenly  became  a  dissenter,  stif 
fened,  frowned,  and  drew  back.  "No,  never  again ! 
I  am  forgetting  something." 

"Forgetting  what?" 

"Forgetting  that  I  had  decided  we  can  never 
marry." 

Ethan's  eyebrows  went  up.     "Really?" 

"Yes,  really." 

"What  have  I  done?" 

"You  have  deceived  me:  a  deliberate,  long  con 
tinued  deception.  And  if  you  did  it  once  you  would 
do  it  again.  All  through  life,  perhaps." 

"Oh,  what  a  thought !  But  tell  me,  lovely  person, 
in  what  way  have  I  deceived  you?" 

"In  not  telling  me  of  your  wealth.  In  passing 
yourself  off  as  a  poor  draughtsman  working  for  a 
living." 

"But  if  I  had  announced  myself  as  a  Yankee  mil 
lionaire  you  would  have  shrieked  and  run  away." 

"So,  then,  it  was  a  cold  blooded  scheme,  calmly 
carried  out  ?" 

"Yes.    And  how  well  I  did  it !" 

"To  your  everlasting  shame!  Is  your  mother  so 
very  rich?" 

"Yes." 

"Even  for  America?" 

"Even  for  America." 

"Horrid!"  said  Octavia,  with  a  gesture  of  de 
spair.  "Just  horrid!  All  the  romance  is  gone.  I 
am  making  no  sacrifice.  I -give  nothing." 


Inspiration  375 

"Nothing!  Gods  of  Olympus!  You  give  your 
self,  and  that's  a  million  times  more  than  I  or  any 
other  man  deserves !" 

But  she  shook  her  head.  "No,  it's  horrid— a 
dreadful  disappointment." 

He  took  one  of  her  hands  in  both  of  his.  "A 
newly  married  couple  starting  out  in  life  must  ex 
pect  some  disappointments.  And  there  are  even 
harder  blows  than  unexpected  wealth." 

She  withdrew  her  hand  and  backed  away  a  step. 
'Then  your  ignorance  about  the  plans  was  all  a 
lie." 

"No.  On  my  honor  I  knew  nothing  about  it. 
Mumsey  was  very  sly.  She  evidently  meant  to 
surprise  me." 

But  Octavia  turned  away,  walked  to  the  Kosyie 
Benche,  and  sat  down.  He  followed,  and  sat  beside 
her.  As  the  Kosyie  Benche  was  barely  wide  enough 
for  two,  no  space  was  wasted.  She  folded  her  hands 
and  leaned  back  with  an  air  of  weariness  and  resig 
nation.  "Being  Americans,  I  suppose  you  acquired 
this  wealth  dishonestly." 

"On  the  contrary,  my  father  was  cheated  into 
it." 

"Cheated  into  it !  I  have  heard  of  people  being 
cheated  out  of  a  fortune,  but  never  into  one." 

"Well,  'tis  a  wondrous  tale,  and  if  you  care  to 
listen  I  will  tell  it." 

"Go  on." 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  Ethan,  "to  begin  at  the 


376  Pandora's   Box 

beginning,  when  you  try  to  be  cross  you  are  even 
more  delectable  than  when  you — " 

"Go  on  with  your  story." 

He  began.  "My  father,  recently  married,  had 
started  out  for  himself  as  an  architect.  Being  young 
and  unknown,  clients  were  scarce.  He  had  one 
draughtsman,  but  not  enough  work  to  keep  him 
busy.  So  he  dismissed  the  draughtsman.  This 
condition  lasted  about  a  year,  until  he  and  Mumsey 
moved  to  a  cheaper  boarding  house." 

"Oh,  your  poor  mother !    What  a  come  down !" 

"Yes.  It  was  certainly  a  change  from  Drum- 
worth  Castle.  I  knew  Mumsey  came  from  Eng 
land,  but  she  never  talked  about  it.  And  the  ques 
tions  I  asked  when  a  little  boy  were  answered  in 
such  a  way  that  I  knew  there  was  a  secret  she 
wished  to  keep  to  herself.  But  as  nothing  she 
could  do  or  had  done  could  lessen  my  respect  and 
affection,  I  never  bothered  her  about  it. 

Well,  to  continue.  My  father  had  about  decided 
to  take  in  his  sign  and  look  for  a  position  as 
draughtsman  when  Fortune  one  morning  walked 
right  into  his  office  without  knocking.  She  was 
disguised  as  a  real  estate  man,  short  and  stout. 
She  wore  a  diamond  ring  and  a  chin  beard  and 
was  smoking  a  strong  cigar,  which  she  kept  in  her 
mouth  as  she  talked.  This  man  was  "booming"  a 
new  town  in  Colorado  and  wanted  designs  for  a 
wooden  hotel,  and  a  wooden  opera  house.  Father 
made  the  drawings.  And  when  the  work  was 


Inspiration  377 

done  he  sent  his  bill  for  the  price  agreed  on,  fif 
teen  hundred  dollars." 

"How  much  is  that  in  civilized  money?" 
"I  couldn't  say.  But  in  the  coin  of  this  island- 
to  which  I  am  indebted  for  something  dearer  than 
life — it  would  be  three  hundred  pounds.  Instead 
of  sending  the  money  the  man  wrote  that  things 
had  gone  against  him  and  he  could  not  pay  all  his 
creditors.  But  he  would  deed  to  my  father  a  farm 
in  payment  of  his  bill.  This  farm,  he  wrote,  was 
of  forty  acres  and  easily  worth  one  hundred  dollars 
an  acre.  As  it  was  clear  from  the  letter  that  if 
father  refused  the  farm  he  would  probably  get 
nothing,  he  sent  a  receipt  in  full  for  the  fifteen  hun 
dred  dollars  and  received  a  deed  of  the  land." 

"So  he  got  four  thousand  dollars  instead  of  fifteen 
hundred." 

"Well,  it  had  that  appearance — for  a  few  months. 
But  when  he  tried  to  sell  this  four  thousand  dollar 
farm  at  auction  he  couldn't  get  a  bid  on  it.  Nobody 
wanted  it.  He  learned  that  this  farm  was  no  farm 
at  all ;  merely  a  treeless,  waterless,  grassless  tract  on 
the  side  of  a  barren  mountain.  Then  he  realized 
how  completely  he  had  been  fooled." 

"Outrageous!  I  do  hope  the  horrid  brute  was 
punished." 

"He  was.  Plentifully  and  most  elaborately  pun 
ished.  Retribution  was  camping  on  his  trail.  But 
that  did  not  help  my  father  at  the  time.  The  failure 
to  get  his  fifteen  hundred  dollars  forced  him  to  give 


37$  Pandora's  Box 

up  his  office  and  seek  a  position  as  draughtsman. 
Then  he  and  Mumsey  took  smaller  rooms  in  a  still 
cheaper  boarding-house." 

"And  your  poor  mother!    How  hard  for  her!" 

"Yes,  it  was  hard  on  Mumsey;  and  I,  always 
tactless,  chose  that  period  of  failure  and  starvation 
to  come  into  the  world." 

Octavia  smiled.    "No,  never  tactless.    But  go  on." 

"Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  my  father  sold, 
within  two  years,  a  half  interest  in  two  of  those 
forty  acres  for  more  than  a  million  dollars.  The 
worthless  farm  was  lined  with  silver." 

"Really?    Was  it  a  mine? — a  truly  silver  mine?" 

"A  really,  truly  mine.  And  not  only  one  but 
several  mines.  And  so,  all  the  rest  of  his  days  he 
was  odiously,  shockingly  rich." 

"Splendid!"  exclaimed  Octavia.  "And  there  was 
no  more  poverty  for  your  mother." 

"I  should  say  not !  Mumsey  moved  from  the  back 
rooms  of  a  boarding-house  to  a  corner  mansion; 
from  street  cars  to  victorias ;  from  worn-out  dresses 
to  the  newest  Paris  creations.  In  short,  from  dark 
ness  to  light,  from  the  bottom  of  the  ladder  to  the 
very  top." 
,  "And  cheated  into  it  I  Oh,  it  was  lovely !" 

"Yes,  just  lovely!" 

Octavia  leaned  back  and  closed  her  eyes.  "What 
a  fairy  tale!  And  to  end  so  well!  But  there  is  a 
bad  side  to  it,  I  suppose,  as  you,  instead  of  the 
ambitious  hardworking  man  I  imagined,  were 
brought  up  like  other  gilded  youths." 


Inspiration  379 

"Not  a  bit !  Father  loved  his  work  and  stuck  to 
architecture.  And  he  brought  me  up  in  the  same 
way.  Ask  Mumsey  if  I  am  a  loafer." 

"Ask  her,  indeed!  A  mother's  opinion  of  an 
only  child  r 

Baseborn,  at  this  point,  suddenly  conscious  of 
being  too  long  ignored,  rushed  to  Octavia,  barked, 
bounced,  then  rose  up  and  placed  his  front  paws 
against  her  knees.  Gently  she  pushed  him  away, 
then  dusted  off  the  dirt.  "Excuse  me,  Baseborn,  but 
this  is  a  clean  dress.  Forgive  me,  won't  you?" 

Ethan  glowered  upon  the  dog.  "Shame  on  you, 
Baseborn !  Never  forget  that  you  and  I  have  mar 
ried  into  the  most  exalted  family  of  this  island.  It 
is  for  us  to  make  up  in  deportment  what  we  lack  in 
beauty." 

"Lack  in  beauty !"  exclaimed  Octavia.  "You  are 
the  two  handsomest  things  in  England !" 

Ethan  looked  down  into  Baseborn's  honest  face- 
honest,  but  of  surpassing  ugliness— and  he  whistled 
softly.  "That,  of  course,  cannot  be  denied.  How 
ever,  if  good  intentions  count  at  a  beauty  contest 
we  are  in  it." 

On  this  subject  was  further  discourse,  friendly 
and  informal  as  befitted  a  Kosyie  Benche  in  sun 
shine,  with  the  perfume  of  flowers  and  old  box. 
During  the  discourse  Ethan  took  her  nearest  hand 
and  seemed  to  be  counting  the  fingers.  She,  in  an 
idle  way,  was  watching  Baseborn,  as  he  dug  for 
treasure,  a  few  feet  away.  And  he  was  displaying 
the  enthusiasm  customary  with  dogs  in  similar  en- 


380  Pandora's  Box 

terprises.  She  happened  to  notice,  indifferently  at 
first,  that  something  near  his  nose  caused  Baseborn 
to  stop  work  for  a  moment,  take  a  step  forward  and 
investigate.  This  thing,  a  small,  whitish  grey  object, 
failed  to  sustain  his  interest,  and  he  returned  to 
his  labors.  But  it  interested  Octavia.  She  withdrew 
the  hand  whose  fingers  were  being  counted,  arose, 
walked  over  and  picked  up  the  object.  She  accom 
plished  the  deed  in  such  a  way  that  the  man  on  the 
bench  could  not  see  what  she  was  doing.  She 
studied  the  article — a  silver  coin — brushed  off  the 
dirt,  then,  with  it  hidden  in  her  hand,  faced  about. 
Instead  of  returning  to  her  place  on  the  Kosyie 
Benche  she  walked  away,  suggesting  they  enter  the 
Old  Hall.  And  Ethan  followed. 

As  they  stood  in  the  embrasure  of  the  great  win 
dow — the  window  of  pleasant  memories — she  told 
Ethan  to  keep  his  eyes,  for  a  moment,  on  the  dis 
tant  landscape.  He  obeyed.  What  she  did  behind 
him,  off  near  Pandora's  box,  was  not  then  divulged. 
When  permitted  to  look  around  he  saw  nothing  un- 
unsual.  His  eyes  came  back  to  hers  for  informa 
tion.  She  smiled,  and  had  begun  to  speak,  when  the 
smile  departed.  Terror  took  its  place  and  she 
looked  toward  the  door. 

"Horrors!    Listen!" 

He  listened.  Distinctly  to  their  ears,  from  the 
cloistered  arches,  came  voices  of  approaching  tour 
ists.  Octavia  frowned  in  vexation,  and  pressed  her 
hand  against  a  cheek. 


Inspiration  381 

"Oh  dear!  I  forgot  it  was  their  day/' 
Now  Ethan  cared  little  for  the  visitors,  but  he 
sympathized  with  Octavia.  After  a  glance  in  the 
direction  of  the  coming  voices  he  did  an  unaccount 
able  thing — a  thing  never  explained.  Yielding  to 
a  sudden  impulse  he  started  toward  the  gallery  at 
the  end  of  the  Hall.  Octavia  and  Baseborn  followed 
close  behind.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  secret  door. 
He  had  never  heard  it  mentioned,  nor  dreamed  of 
its  existence.  Yet,  with  no  hesitation,  without  the 
slightest  wavering  or  uncertainty,  he  walked  di 
rectly  to  it,  to  the  fourth  panel  from  the  left.  And 
there  were  many  panels  in  the  partition,  all  precisely 
alike.  He  was  conscious,  once  again,  of  a  sensation 
more  or  less  familiar  to  everybody,  the  sudden, 
evanescent  but  vivid  impression  of  passing  through 
an  experience  already  known  to  us.  This  sensa 
tion  had  surprised  him  more  than  once  while  at 
Drumworth  Castle.  Especially  had  he  known  it 
those  mornings  in  the  Old  Hall  when  working  at  his 
drawings,  with  Octavia  at  the  window — also  on  the 
Kosyie  Benche.  This  time,  however,  it  was  strong 
er  and  yet  more  vivid ;  even  stronger  and  more  vivid 
than  the  night  before,  when  the  moonlit  face  of  the 
Earl  of  Drumworth  stared  back  at  him,  with  glazing 
eyes,  from  the  pedestal  of  the  dancing  cupid.  Now, 
guided  by  this  flash  of  a  mysterious  knowledge — 
a  sudden  sense  of  things  unknown — he  walked 
straight  to  the  secret  door,  a  door,  as  such,  invisible 
to  all  who  knew  it  not.  And  he  pressed  his  thumb 


382  Pandora's   Box 

upon  the  hidden  spring.  This  spring,  a  bit  of  metal 
no  larger  than  a  finger  tip,  was  so  well  concealed 
between  the  moldings  of  the  panel  that  even  per 
sons  familiar  with  it  had  to  pause  and  search. 
Moreover,  he  did  it  rapidly  and  with  precision,  as 
if  it  were  a  habit.  And  he  failed  to  realize  the  sin 
gularity  of  his  act  until  a  moment  later,  when  he, 
Octavia  and  Baseborn  were  sitting  on  a  lower  step 
of  the  narrow  stair,  huddled  close  together  in  the 
dark.  All  three  were  listening  to  the  voices  of  the 
tourists  as  they  entered  the  Hall. 

Octavia  whispered,  "Who  told  you  of  the  secret 
panel?" 

"Nobody.  I  didn't  know  there  was  one." 
In  solemn  undertones  they  discussed  the  marvel. 
Answering  Octavia's  questions,  Ethan  explained 
that  he  walked  to  the  secret  door  with  eyes  open 
and  wits  about  him,  and  pressed  the  hidden  spring 
instinctively,  feeling  no  surprise  until  the  thing  was 
done  and  the  door  had  closed  behind  them.  Now 
that  he  knew  the  story  of  his  parents,  he  could  better 
understand,  or  at  least  divine  a  cause  for  those  sud 
den  flashes  of  familiarity  that  had  often  come  to 
him  in  the  Old  Hall,  in  the  deserted  garden  and  on 
the  Kosyie  Benche.  A  year  ago,  before  he  knew 
their  story,  these  sensations  puzzled  him.  He  rarely 
had  such  experiences  before  coming  to  Drumworth 
Castle.  The  explanation  that  seemed  to  them  the 
least  improbable  was  that  some  lasting  impression 
on  a  parent's  brain— of  one  or  both — might  have 


Inspiration 

descended  to  the  son;  that  in  this  emergency,  al 
though  unimportant,  he  had  obeyed  an  impulse  of 
his  subconscious  mind.  And  what  more  probable 
than  that  Ethan's  mother,  on  sudden  warning  of  a 
husband's  visit,  had  fled  in  terror  to  this  door?  And 
for  the  wife  who  knew  that  husband  the  terror 
would  never  be  forgotten.  Octavia  could  testify 
from  her  own  experience  that  the  Countess  of 
Drumworth  knew  well  the  panel  and  its  secret 
spring. 

This  whispering  in  the  darkness  lasted  until  the 
voices  of  Bayliss  and  his  followers  died  away. 

Again  there  was  silence  in  the  Old  Hall. 


XXXIII 

ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS 

BASEBORN,  for  one,  was  glad  to  get  out.  He 
had  been  restive  during  the  dark  imprison 
ment.     And  when,  at  last,  he  and  his  two 
friends  stepped  forth  into  the  light  he  was  dissuaded 
with    difficulty   from    pursuing  the  intruders  and 
voicing  his  opinion. 

All  aglow  with  sunshine  was  the  Old  Hall;  and 
Ethan,  with  Octavia,  stood  for  a  moment  blinking 
at  the  light.  As  they  neared  the  great  window, 
where  the  thousand  perfumes  from  the  old  garden 
floated  in  through  the  open  casement,  a  bird  alighted 
on  the  sill,  at  the  lady's  usual  seat.  He  was  small, 
and  grey  in  color,  with  a  white  breast  and  a  touch 
of  pink  at  the  throat.  At  once  he  began  to  sing. 
Sweet  were  his  notes,  and  musical  his  song.  But, 
if  one  could  judge  from  the  singer's  manner,  the 
song  was  a  protest.  He  made  it  clear  that  he  re 
garded  these  two  persons  with  suspicion.  So  frank 
and  so  emphatic  was  his  disapproval  that  it  excited 
comment. 

"What  an  interesting  little  chap !"  said  Ethan.  "I 
am  afraid  we  don't  have  him  in  my  country.  What 
is  he,  anyway  ?" 

384 


Above  the  Clouds  3«5 

"A  chaffinch.  He  knows  you  are  a  Yankee  and  is 
telling  you  to  go  home." 

Ethan  laughed.  "There's  no  doubt  about  that — 
ill  mannered  little  Britisher!" 

For  a  moment  they  stood  watching  him  and  listen 
ing  to  what  he  had  to  say.  He  said  it  in  a  cheery 
voice,  in  an  off  hand,  jolly  way,  and  it  was  more  like 
a  laugh  than  a  song.  But  he  studied  this  man  and 
woman  first  with  one  eye  then  the  other,  and  seemed 
to  sing  because  he  couldn't  help  it.  He  gave  the 
impression  of  one  appointed  by  himself — and  possi 
bly  other  birds  in  the  garden — to  order  trespassers 
away. 

"An  officious,  impudent  little  snob!"  said  Ethan, 
"but  how  merry  and  optimistic.  Why  don't  we  have 
him  in  America?" 

"America!"  Octavia  repeated  the  word  with  os 
tentatious  contempt.  "He  is  far  too  wise!  But 
tell  me,  speaking  of  birds,  are  American  husbands 
expensive?" 

"Expensive?    You  mean,  are  they  extravagant?" 

"No.    I  mean,  are  they  expensive." 

"To  purchase?" 

"Yes,  to  purchase." 

"American  husbands  are  dearer  than  American 
wives.  You  can  buy  an  American  heiress  with  any 
old  title." 

"But  if  one  wished  to  buy  an  American  husband 
of  fairly  good  quality  what  would  be  the  price?" 

Ethan  closed  his  eyes  in  solemn  thought.    "Much 


386  Pandora's   Box 

depends  on  the  purchaser.  If  a  repulsive  old  woman 
wanted  to  buy  a  nice  young  man  the  price  might  be 
a  million  dollars." 

"And  what  would  be  your  price?" 

"To  a  repulsive  old  woman?" 

"No,  to  me." 

"Five  or  ten  cents." 

"How  much  is  ten  cents?" 

"About  five  pence." 

"Then  I  surely  could  buy  you  for  sixpence." 

"Oh,  any  time!" 

"Go  to  Pandora's  box,  and  keep  what  you  find 
there." 

Ethan  frowned  and  shook  his  head.  He  spoke  of 
that  maiden's  heartless  joke  a  year  ago,  and  the 
tragedy  it  nearly  caused.  "The  mission  of  Pan 
dora's  box,  you  know,  is  to  bring  trouble  to  mor 
tals." 

"Some  troubles,"  said  Octavia,  "are  blessings  in 
disguise." 

Ethan  walked  over  to  the  statue,  put  his  hand  in 
the  marble  casket  and  drew  forth  a  coin.  He 
studied  it,  then  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"Well,  did  you  ever!  It's  the  shilling  you  gave 
me  for  rowing  you  across  the  river  the  first  time  I 
ever  saw  you!  There's  the  dent  I  made  near  the 
edge.  Is  this  what  you  picked  up  in  the  garden  a 
little  while  ago?" 

She  nodded.  "And  once  again  I  give  it;  six 
pence,  the  price  I  pay  for  you:  and  the  rest,  as 
before,  a  tip." 


Above  the  Clouds  387 

"I  accept  the  tip  with  thanks,  but  you  must  take 
back  the  other  sixpence.  I  was  yours  already.  Be 
sides,  you  may  find  it  a  useful  talisman.  If  I  ever 
become  too  independent  just  show  me  this  shilling. 
It  will  remind  me  that  I  was  bought  for  sixpence." 

"But  I  have  always  heard  that  American  hus 
bands  are  never  too  independent;  that  they  are 
humble  minded  and  obedient." 

"Always.    There  are  no  exceptions." 

"And  obey  their  wives  in  all  things  ?" 

"In  all  things." 

"Shall  you  do  everything  I  tell  you?" 

"Yes,  oh,  Joy  of  the  Present,  Hope  of  the 
Future!" 

"Always  and  forever?" 

"So  long  as  I  live." 

"Do  all  my  errands  ?" 

"Certainly." 

"Never  contradict?" 

"Never." 

Octavia  drew  back  a  little,  and  regarded  him  from 
the  corners  of  her  eyes.  "Will  you  think  as  I  do- 
in  all  matters?" 

"That  will  be  my  duty." 

"Change  your  religion?" 

"At  once." 

"Be  a  gentleman  of  leisure?  Give  up  your  pro 
fession?" 

"Yes." 

"And  your  mother,  too,  if  I  am  jealous?" 

"Of  course!" 


388  Pandora's  Box 

"Live  here  at  Drumworth  all  the  year  round?" 

"Yes." 

"Never  go  to  America,  even  for  a  visit?" 

"Never." 

"Forget  your  country  and  become  a  British  sub 
ject?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  mean  to  keep  all  those  promises?" 

"No." 

Octavia  laughed.  "Thank  heaven !  I  should  de 
spise  you  if  you  did !" 

The  chaffinch  at  the  window  was  stepping  side 
ways,  to  and  fro,  silent  now,  but  suspicious;  uncer 
tain  apparently  how  to  express  his  disapproval.  For 
these  intruders  were  impervious  to  censure.  In  their 
designs  he  had  no  confidence. 

Baseborn  with  his  nose  to  the  floor  was  sniffing 
about  the  room  in  the  tracks  of  the  departed  tour 
ists,  uttering  low  growls.  But  these  growls  were 
partly  for  show.  They  were  merely  the  usual  canine 
expressions  of  doubt  as  to  the  intentions  of  stran 
gers.  And  who  had  a  better  right  to  responsibility 
for  the  safety  of  Octavia  than  the  present  dog? 

The  two  lovers  stood  smiling  into  each  other's 
faces,  like  happy  children.  Through  the  stained 
glass  of  the  great  window  the  sunlight  lay  gently 
upon  them,  as  in  friendly  approval. 

"This  morning  in  the  garden,"  said  Ethan,  "you 
were  shocked  at  hearing  of  Mumsey's  descent  from 
Drumworth  castle  to  a  cheap  American  boarding- 


Above  the   Clouds  389 

house.  Yet  you  must  have  been  prepared,  until  last 
night,  for  a  similar  experience.  Or,  at  best,  to 
struggle  along  in  a  modest  wooden  cottage." 

"Yes;  painted  white,  with  green  shutters." 

"And  that  we  should  live  on  whatever  income  I 
might  earn  from  my  profession?" 

"Yes,  little  Ethan." 

"And  to  pass  the  rest  of  your  days  among  the  far 
away  Yankees,  whom  you  despised?" 

Octavia's  cheeks  grew  a  trifle  redder.  "Oh,  why 
do  you  recall  it?" 

"Please  tell  me  honestly.     It  is  true,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes — I  am  ashamed  to  confess  it." 

"The  confession  is  to  your  everlasting  glory.  And 
you  were  ready  to  leave  your  old  friends,  your  so 
cial  life  and  all  that  binds  you  to  England,  and  to 
follow  me — anywhere?" 

"Anywhere."  And  with  this  word  there  was  a 
little  outward  gesture  of  the  hands,  signifying  many 
tilings. 

"You  were  going  to  do  all  this  for  love  of  me— 
just  Ethan  Lovejoy?" 

"Life  for  me  did  not  begin  until  you,  just  Ethan 
Lovejoy,  came  into  it." 

Ethan  closed  his  eyes,  straightened  up  and  drew 
a  long  breath.  When  his  eyes  opened  there  was  a 
blinking — that  familiar  but  ever  useless  effort  to 
conceal  a  moisture  between  the  lids. 

"Well,  I  can  only  say" — his  unsteady  voice  told 
of  a  deeper  feeling  than  words  disclosed — "it  is 


390  Pandora's  Box 

for  me  to  make  you  happy,  Octavia,  and — my  love 
for  you — if  ever — " 

A  final  quaver  ended  his  speech.  His  tongue 
failed.  This  little  breakdown  called  for  no  reply, 
and  no  reply  was  spoken.  But  in  Octavia's  face 
there  was  an  answer — in  her  eyes,  in  the  warmer 
color  that  came  into  her  cheeks,  and  on  the  lips  that 
murmured  something — something  nobody  heard. 
However,  to  make  the  answer  clearer  still,  she 
stepped  forward  into  his  arms. 

As  they  closed  around  her,  the  chaffinch  at  the 
window  began  to  sing,  and  rose  upon  his  wings. 
He  sailed  away  over  the  old  garden,  proclaiming 
to  the  world,  in  a  melody  of  mirth,  that  all  was 
going  well. 


The  Master's  Violin 


By  MYRTLE  REED 


MASTERS 


BY 
MYRTLE  REED 


A  Love  Story*  with  a  musical  at 
mosphere.  A  picturesque,  old 
German  virtuoso  is  the  rever 
ent  possessor  of  a  genuine  Cre 
mona.  He  consents  to  take  as 
his  pupil  a  handsome  youth  who 
proves  to  have  an  aptitude  for 
technique,  but  not  the  soul  of 
the  artist.  The  youth  has  led  the 
happy,  careless  life  of  a  modern, 
well-to-do  young  American,  and 
he  cannot,  with  his  meagre  past, 
express  the  love,  the  longing,  the  passion  and  the  trage 
dies  of  life  and  its  happy  phases  as  can  the  master  who 
has  lived  life  hi  all  its  fulness.  But  a  girl  comes  into 
his  existence,  a  beautiful  bit  of  human  driftwood  that 
his  aunt  had  taken  into  her  heart  and  home ;  and  through 
his  passionate  love  for  her,  he  learns  the  lessons  that  life 
has  to  give — and  his  soul  awakens. 

Founded  on  a  fact  well  known  among  artists,  but  not 
often  recognized  or  discussed." 

If  you  have  not  read  "LAVENDER  AND  OLD  LACE"  by  the 
same  author,  you  have  a  double  pleasure  in  store — for 
these  two  books  show  Myrtle  Reed  in  her  most  delightful, 
fascinating  vein — indeed  they  may  be  considered  as  mas 
terpieces  of  compelling  interest. 

Atk  for  complete  frit  list  of  G.  &  D.   Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  Publishers,  NEW  YORK 


The  Prodigal  Judge 


By  VAUGHAN  KESTER 

This  great  novel — probably  the  most  popular  book  in 
;Jiis  country  to-day — is  as  human  as  a  story  from  the  pen 
of  that  great  master  of  "immortal  laughter  and  immortal 
tears,"  Charles  Dickens. 

The  Prodigal  Judge  is  a  shabby  outcast,  a  tavern  hang 
er-on,  a  genial  wayfarer  who  tarries  longest  where  the  inn 
is  most  hospitable,  yet  with  that  suavity,  that  distinctive 
politeness  and  that  saving  grace  of  humor  peculiar  to  the 
American  man.  He  has  his  own  code  of  morals — very 
exalted  ones — but  honors  them  in  the  breach  rather  than 
in  the  observance. 

Clinging  to  the  Judge  closer  than  a  brother,  is  Solomon 
Mahaffy — fallible  and  failing  like  the  rest  of  us,  but  with 
a  sublime  capacity  for  friendship;  and  closer  still,  perhaps, 
clings  little  Hannibal,  a  boy  about  whose  parentage 
nothing  is  known  until  the  end  of  the  story.  Hannibal 
is  charmed  into  tolerance  of  the  Judge's  picturesque 
vices,  while  Miss  Betty,  lovely  and  capricious,  is  charmed 
into  placing  all  her  affairs,  both  material  and  sentimental, 
in  the  hands  of  this  delightful  old  vagabond. 

The  Judge  will  be  a  fixed  star  in  the  firmament  of 
fictional  characters  as  surely  as  David  Harum  or  Col. 
Sellers.  He  is  a  source  of  infinite  delight,  while  this  story 
of  Air.  Kester'  s  is  one  of  the  finest  examples  of  Ameri 
can  literary  craftmanship. 

Aslt  for  complete  free  list  of  G.  &  D.  Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

202  Main  Library 


LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 
Renewals  and  Recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  the  due  date. 
Books  may  be  Renewed  by  calling     642-3405. 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


OCT131991 

i 

AUTO  HSC  00104-91 

Mnv    0  t;    1QQ'. 

.   AUTO  DISC  CIRC  H 

Y02'93 

ii  IM   1  o  9nQ( 

—  iJUPt   1  u  t.uui 

FORM  NO.  DD6 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


ill!! 


II 


i 


